The Sanction of the Victim
by Evie McFarland
Summary: Reid is getting strange messages from an unsub who considers himself the personification of a fictional character. When Reid refuses to follow his orders, what are the ramifications?
1. Chapter 1

**Reid is get strange messages from an unsub who considers himself the personification of a fictional character. When Reid refuses to follow his orders, what are the ramifications? (Possible character death. I don't know the ending yet.)**

Reid was cold.

He shifted from foot to foot, blowing warm air onto his hands. Hotch and Morgan stood on either side of him—they didn't seem to notice how cold it was. They were immersed in a conversation about the body.

"Reid? What do you think?" Hotch demanded suddenly, turning towards him.

Reid blinked. He hadn't been listening, but he could hazard a guess as to what they were talking about. "Well," he said, "Let's see. W, I, J, G, question mark. Same as the other three bodies. Obviously, that question is pretty important to him."

Hotch sighed. "Yes," he said, "But what does it stand for?"

Reid fought the urge to roll his eyes. Did they think he had a database of every acronym in the world stored in his head? He was good, but not _that _good. "I'm not sure," he said, "But I think we'll be getting more information soon—a killer like this is obviously trying to send a message. If the message isn't being received, he'll clarify himself."

"If he leaves the bodies in a graveyard, that suggests a significant amount of remorse," Morgan added.

"Right," Hotch said, "I'm calling Garcia."

Reid stood there as Hotch took out his phone, frustration mounting. "I s-sorry," he said after a moment, as his teeth began to chatter, "I'm going to go w-wait in the c-car."

"Too cold for you, pretty boy?" Morgan taunted him as he made his way back to the car, rubbing his hands together. Reid dutifully ignored him, walking around the car and getting into the front seat.

"Hey!" Morgan called out as he and Hotch approached the car, "Who said you get shotgun?"

Reid just folded his hands in his lap and stared out the window, a smile playing on his lips. He was _thinking._

Morgan muttered something incomprehensible as he opened the door and seated himself in the back.

Reid turned to him. "Denial of death," he said conversationally.

Morgan blinked. "What?"

"Ernest Becker. Dystetology."

Morgan just raised his eyebrows. Hotch opened the door and stepped in, frowning at the younger agents. "What are you two talking about?"

Reid folded his hands, feeling the excited tingling sensation that appeared whenever he got to explain something. "Ernest Becker postulated that everything we as humans do is an attempt to deny our mortality—hence, to escape death. Art, music, literature, science, _murder_—everything for one purpose. To achieve _immortality—_in its own sense."

Morgan shook his head slowly. "So what?"

"_So. _Apply it to the case."

Hotch let out an annoyed gust of air. "Alright, Reid. We know that you've already got it figured out. Explain, please."

Reid's grin widened.

"The W and the I. What do those to letters, in succession, tend to stand for?"

Morgan shrugged. "Hell if I know," he said.

"What is?" Hotch asked, raising his eyebrows.

"_Who _is," Reid clarified. "This guy wants to be noticed; he feels _invisible_. Like nobody knows his name. But he also doesn't want to get _caught. _So he leaves his initials on the bodies, henceforth—" Reid folded his hands, "Taking revenge on those who have failed to notice him, and immortalizing himself forever."

Morgan shook his head. "Seems kind of far-fetched," he muttered.

"_Think _about it," Reid said. "When it comes to _attention_ _seeking_ serial killers such as this one—what's the ultimate dilemma? They want everyone to know about their crimes—and yet, _no one_ can ever know. _How_ will their name live on forever—if nobody knows it was them? I'd say its classic narcissistic personality disorder. He needs some way to take credit for this. The bodies are _his—_and he wants the whole world to know it."

Hotch and Morgan were both frowning at him. "So," Morgan said, "We can have Garcia search for anyone with the initials of J and G."

Reid was already shaking his head. "It's very unlikely this is his real name," he said. "First of all, it makes it _easier _for the police to find him. Second of all, I'd say he's operating under a pseudonym of sorts; it's much more personal if _he _chose the name himself."

Morgan sat back in his seat. "So this doesn't help us at all," he muttered.

Reid shrugged. "Don't shoot the messenger," he said.

Hotch raised his eyebrows. "We'll head back to the station," he said, "Tell everyone what we've found."

He started the engine. "Wait," Reid said suddenly.

Hotch waited.

"Never mind," he muttered, "I thought I saw—" Then, he saw it again.

Reid got out of the car. "Hey!" he called.

The kid started, turning around. He was clutching a book in his hands and trembling.

"You aren't in trouble," Reid said, approaching him. "What're you doing hanging out near a graveyard?"

The kid didn't answer. "Are you Dr. Reid?" he asked nervously.

Reid nodded.

The kid shrugged, then pressed the book into his hands. "Y-you should read it, Dr. Reid," he muttered. "It's a good book."

Then he took off.

"Hey!" Reid grabbed onto the kid's arm. "Who gave this to you?"

The kid just shook his head. "Please," he said, "I couldn't see him. He seemed nice at first. J-just take the book, okay?" The kid jerked his arm away and took off down the street.

"What the hell was the about?" Morgan called. Reid approached the car, staring at the book.

"He knew my name…" he muttered.

"What've you got there?" Morgan prompted. "Who was that kid?"

Reid shrugged. "Probably not someone who has actually read a…" He flipped to the back page. "1,167 paged book."

Morgan frowned. "So someone gave it to him?"

"That's what he said. He never saw his face, though. I—" He broke off as a note fell into his lap. "Oh," he said softly.

_Dr. Reid,_

_Learn to distinguish between errors in knowledge and breaches in morality. Force and mind are opposites; morality ends where a gun __begins. A government is the most dangerous threat to a man's rights; it holds a legal monopoly on the use of physical force over those who have been legally disarmed. Remember, evil requires the sanction of the victim. The evil of the world is made possible by nothing but the sanction you give it._

_~JG_

"What the hell does that mean?" Morgan asked, reading over his shoulder.

"Someone doesn't like the government," Hotch said.

Reid flipped the book over, staring at it in astonishment. "They're quotes," he muttered.

"What?" Morgan demanded.

"I know what JG stands for," Reid said, "And I've read this book before."

**Fifty points to anyone who knows what book it is. Thanks for reading, please leave a review and tell me what you think!**


	2. Chapter 2

**SPOILER ALERT: So nobody guessed the book. The person who said **_**The Fountainhead **_**was pretty close; right author (Ayn Rand), wrong book. The book is **_**Atlas Shrugged, **_**and while not all of the quotes are from that book, it's the only one of her books that is 1,167 pages. **

**DISCLAIMER: I obviously do not own anything from either Atlas Shrugged (although I'm using a bunch of its quotes) or from Criminal Minds (I don't understand why this disclaimer is necessary, it's called **_**fan **_**fiction for a reason…but I digress.)**

**SECOND DISCLAIMER: Although the serial killer in this story is a murderous, pathological lunatic who is obsessed with **_**Atlas Shrugged, **_**this does not mean that I believe the book promotes violence/ serial killing in any way (anything can be misinterpreted!) In reality, I loved the book so much that I wanted to write a story involving it. So it goes.**

"_Atlas Shrugged,"_ Reid continued excitedly, staring at the six people in front of him, "Was published in 1957. It's a dystopian novel about America's originally capitalist society decaying into a…" he trailed off, thinking. "Masochistic socialist governmental monopoly, where the poorer citizens leech off of the most productive members of society through taxation and governmental regulations, creating an economic situation in which—"

"Reid," Hotch interrupted, "Need to know only."

Reid glanced around at his fellow team members in frustration, and began speaking faster. "Essentially, the 'productive' members of society decide to go on strike, and so all of them start disappearing, leaving the rest of America to self destruct. Which it eventually does," he adds, "At the end of the book, all of the lights of New York go out."

"So what the hell does this have to do with our killer?" Morgan asked, bewildered.

Reid grinned. "John Galt," he said, pointing to one of the crime scene photos. "Throughout the duration of the book, there is the ever-lingering question; _who is John Galt?_" The team stared at him in confusion; they did not seem nearly as enthralled by this as was. Reid sighed. "It's like…a _theme," _he explained didactically.

"W, I, G J," Hotch said suddenly, staring at the letters carved into the disfigured body.

"Exactly," Reid answered. "At the beginning of the book, it was thought that John Galt doesn't exist, and so, it becomes a saying that represents the hopelessness of the current situation. 'Why is this happening?' 'Who is John Galt?' It's the first line of the book, actually."

"This guy thinks his situation is hopeless, and so…he's murdering people?" Prentiss asked, raising her eyebrows.

"I'm not finished," Reid said, "At the end of the book, one of the main characters—Dagny Taggart—crashes her plane into a field, because she's searching for the lost society. Well, _actually, _she was following her friend, Quentin Daniels, who she was afraid was going to disappear because everyone had been disappearing and—"

"Reid!" Morgan interrupted. "We're not asking for a book summary!"

"Sorry," Reid muttered. "Anyways, she _meets _John Galt—it turns out that he's _leading _the strike. Look on the back, here—" He held the book out for all of them to see. _"Was he a destroyer or the greatest of liberators? _Basically, John Galt singlehandedly brings about the destruction of America, so that he and his new society can start the world anew." Reid reached into his pocket and took out the note he had received. "The unsub signed it 'JG,'" he said, showing it around.

Hotch raised his eyebrows. "So this unsub thinks he's a fictional character?"

Reid shrugged. "Well, he certainly identifies with him."

Morgan sighed. "Anti-governmental whack-job. Excellent. I love those guys."

Reid held out the note. _"__A government is the most dangerous threat to a man's rights; it holds a legal monopoly on the use of physical force over those who have been legally disarmed." _ Reid paused. "It's a quote from the book." Another pause. "This note was addressed to me."

JJ frowned. "Why you?" she asked. "Why not anyone else from the team? If he hates the government, I mean."

Reid shook his head slowly, going over the note again. _"Learn to distinguish between errors in knowledge and breaches in morality. Force and mind are opposites; morality ends where a gun begins…"_ Reid trailed off, staring at the note.

"You know, Reid," Rossi said, speaking up for the first time, "It's almost like he's trying to give you advice."

There was a pause.

"That makes sense," Hotch said slowly. "Reid, didn't you say the most productive members of society were being exploited?"

Reid shrugged. Nodded.

"If he's done research on you —maybe he knows your IQ, he's read some of your papers, he's read an article about you…he might see you as a—"

"Victim," Reid muttered, "He thinks I'm being exploited. That the government's taking advantage of my intelligence, and…" he trailed off. "_Evil requires the sanction of the victim. All of the evil of the world is made possible by the sanction you give it."_

"Garcia," Hotch said, "You said three out of four victims had lost jobs some time ago. Could you check on—"

"Already done, boss-man," Garcia said, "And _four _out of four victims had just cashed in on their welfare checks."

"Alright," Hotch said, "So, he hates the poor."

"Not the poor _specifically_," Reid interrupted, "People who he believes are abusing the system."

"Right," Hotch muttered, letting out a yawn. "Well, its 11:30; I don't think we're going to get much more done today."

"I feel fine," Reid said, who wanted to keep talking about the book.

"That's because you've had six cups of coffee, Pretty Boy," Morgan replied, already getting to his feet. "I understand that literature excites you… but I, personally, am ready to go home."

"One of the advantages to having a case in DC," JJ commented, standing up as well.

"But, we were just having a breakthrough in the case—there's still so much we can get done—"

"Reid," Rossi said, reaching out and putting his hand on the young man's shoulder, "When Hotch says it's time to call it a day, it's time to call it a day."

"You'll crash tomorrow," Hotch warned the disgruntled youth as the rest of them filed out of the conference room.

When Reid made it home, it was well past twelve. He stumbled blindly up to his apartment door—he froze immediately when he saw that there was a note tacked to it, all traces of weariness disappearing immediately.

_Dr. Reid—_

_The damnedest and the guiltiest among us are the men who _had _the capacity to know, yet chose to blank out reality, the men who were willing to sell their intelligence into cynical servitude to force. They, the intellects who seek escape from moral values, _they _are the damned on earth, _theirs _is the guilt beyond forgiveness._

_Your destroyers hold you by means of endurance, your generosity, you innocence, your love— in the name of the best within you, do not sacrifice yourself and this world to those who are its worst._

_THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE, DR. REID. I WILL OFFER NO MORE WARNINGS. PROJECT X IS ALL THAT AWAITS YOU. THEY HAVE NO CONCERN FOR THE PAIN OF THE INNOCENT._

—_JG_

Hotch let out a yawn as he took off his coat, hanging it on the doorknob. He shook Jessica awake; she had fallen asleep on the couch.

"Thank you, Jessica, I'm sorry I'm so late, you can stay the night if you—"

Hotch broke off in surprise as his phone started buzzing. He glanced down.

_Reid._

Hotch let out a sigh, holding a finger out to Jessica (who had already fallen back to sleep) and answering his phone. "Reid, I _told _you, we're not continuing the case until—"

"Hotch?" Reid's voice sounded high and terrified.

Immediately, all alarm systems went off. "Reid? Where are you? Are you hurt?"

"H-Hotch, we might have a bigger problem than I—" Reid's voice cut off abruptly with a strangled shout.

"Reid? Reid? REID!" Hotch screamed into the phone, waking Jessica again. "REID! What's happening? Where are you?"

He shouted Reid's name twice more, and when there was no answer, he eventually gave in and listened raptly for several moments, hoping to hear what was going on; but there was nobody on the other end. Nothing was left but ringing silence. Reid was gone.

**Ahh, poor Reid. Thank you for reading. Reviews are your best friend.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Thanks to reviewers! You people all are awesome.**

"What's project X?" Hotch muttered.

Morgan turned around, cutting off the police officer with whom he'd been speaking. "Huh?"

"_Project X is all that awaits you." _Hotch turned around, irritated. "Has anyone here read this book?" he asked, addressing the large crowd of officers that had amassed.

Nobody had read the book.

"I miss Reid already," Morgan muttered.

"It doesn't make any sense," Hotch said. "Why did Reid call _me? _Why wouldn't he have called 911? They could have sent help faster."

Morgan frowned. "Unless he wasn't in any immediate danger," he said. "Think about it. He gets to his apartment—sees the note—calls you. While he's talking to you, the unsub attacks him."

"Then why would the unsub have left a note for Reid, if he was just going to abduct him? Why give him time to call anyone?"

Hotch stared at the note for several more moments. "He messed up," he said suddenly. "He didn't expect Reid to call me."

Morgan turned. "What? What did he expect him to do?"

Hotch shook his head. "He's more disorganized than we thought," he muttered. "We need to give a profile as soon as possible."

By the time the whole team had assembled in the conference room, it was almost 6 in the morning; Hotch reflected briefly that it would have made sense for them to be tired, but everyone was too hyped up on anxiety and caffeine.

"Hotch?" Hotch turned around and saw Garcia leading a very young, skittish looking man into their meeting. He avoided Hotch's eyes, focusing on the floor.

"This is Teddy," she said.

"Um, _Theodore," _the young man clarified in a nervous sounding voice.

"He's an intern," she said.

"So?" Hotch snapped, not in the mood to be introduced to new interns.

"Sir, he was the only person I could find who has read this Atlas book. I assumed that you wouldn't have the time to read a thousand page book, so…" she trailed off.

Teddy twitched nervously. "I've read all her books, sir," he said, "I c-could help with your investigation."

Hotch blinked, then turned to Garcia. "No one else has read it?"

She shrugged her shoulders helplessly.

Hotch sighed. "Alright, Teddy," he said. "What's project X?"

Reid was in a very bad mood.

It wasn't that he was handcuffed to a pipe. That wasn't even what made him angry. It was mostly the fact that the unsub had used _his _handcuffs to do this, and that the same unsub had apparently stolen his cell phone, his gun, and the eighteen dollars and fifty cents that he'd had in his back pocket.

Reid sighed, silently lamenting that this whole problem could have been avoided if he'd simply had better reflexes.

To make matters worse, the unsub was nowhere to be seen. Reid shifted uncomfortably, gingerly rubbing the back of his head. He'd had a terrible headache ever since he'd woken up. Reid glanced around the room; his first impression was that of a basement of someone who had long ago run out of the financial resources for its upkeep. It was completely empty except for an outdated computer sitting in the corner and a layer of grime that coated the floor. The only source of light came from a small bulb hanging from the ceiling. The aforementioned pipe was rusting through; he pulled on it a few times, hoping that it would give in; but to no avail.

It was at this point that he heard the pounding.

Reid's head snapped towards the door, staring up the steps; it was shaking, as if someone were repeatedly ramming their fist against it.

"Hello?" Reid shouted. "Help! I'm down here! I'M DOWN HERE!"

The pounding stopped, and he heard footsteps walking away. Reid stared at the door. "Hello? WAIT! COME BACK! COME—" He fell silent as he heard footsteps approaching again; there was a rattling sound for several moments, and then it was pushed open.

The man in front of him was relatively small, with cropped black hair and strangely large eyes. Despite his height, however, he had thick, muscular forearms. Reid stared at the man apprehensively. The man turned around, glancing at the door, and then looked back at Reid sheepishly.

"Locked myself out," he explained, running his hand through his hair. He stepped into the basement and locked the door behind him. He looked Reid up and down.

Reid swallowed, knowing that a single word out of place could set off a delusional unsub. He said nothing.

The man raised his eyebrows and turned around, walking over to the computer. He sat down and began fiddling with the keyboard. When the monitor failed to light up, he turned to Reid with a sigh. "It's broken," he said. "Are you good with computers?"

Reid shook his head, not wanting to get any closer to the man than he had to.

He raised his eyebrows. "I thought you had a doctorate in engineering."

Reid licked his lips. "I, uh…yeah. I guess so." He glanced down, hoping he wouldn't press the issue.

The man stood up, looking concerned. "Do you need some ice?" he asked.

Reid blinked. "Wh-what?"

"You're bleeding," the man informed him, pointing to his head. Reid reached up to his forehead and felt the dried blood congealing there.

"Oh," he said.

The man stepped forwards. "I have to apologize," he said, "This didn't go at all as I planned. But you know, it was really more _your _fault than mine."

Reid blinked. "My fault?"

The man sighed. "All I wanted was to give you a warning. I was trying to _help _you, Dr. Reid. But then I realized that you might have viewed my warning as something to be _alarmed _about, which would have made it _very_ difficult to contact you, so I changed my mind halfway through and…" he gestured towards Reid. "It kind of went downhill from there."

Reid raised his eyebrows. "So…are you going to let me go?"

The unsub laughed. "So I can get a life sentence for murder and the abduction of a federal officer?" He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Spencer…can I call you Spencer?"

Reid frowned. "Um…sure."

"Right. So I'm sorry, but I can't let you out of here until I know I can trust you." He returned to the computer, then said over his shoulder, "You know, you're going to thank me for this someday."

Reid severely doubted that, but he didn't say anything. The man turned around again.

"It's no use," he said sadly, glancing at the outdated computer. "I was really hoping you'd help me fix it, but…" he trailed off, then shrugged. He moved closer to Reid, holding out his hand. "I know who you are, but you don't know me," he said. "My name is Sam."

Reid stared at the hand for a moment, then shook it. "I…I thought you were John Galt," he said. This man obviously wasn't as delusional as their profile had suspected.

Sam laughed. "To the police, I'm John Galt," he said, "But we're friends now." He grinned at Reid. "I think we're going to get along well. _Eventually." _

Reid gritted his teeth. "I don't think I can get along very well with a murderer," he said stiffly.

Sam's expression froze, then turned to one of anger. Reid regretted his words immediately, and was about to apologize when Sam spoke.

"Have you ever killed anyone, Spencer?"

Reid blinked. "I'm an FBI agent."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "You didn't answer my question."

Reid swallowed. "Yes. In _self-defense_."

Sam got to his feet. "I've never killed but in self defense," he said. "I've never harmed anyone who didn't deserve it." He wrung his hands together. "They've stolen everything," he said. "Don't you see what's happening to the country, Spencer? Drug addicts, looters, low-lifes and prostitutes—they _leech off _of innocents; they take things that _aren't theirs to take!" _ He started pacing around. "They've a virus; _a virus that would kill itself, _if the _government _didn't keep feeding it!" He stopped pacing, then bent very close to Reid's face. "The government doesn't care about right or wrong, there's no absolutes anymore, morality's gone to hell—don't you see—_don't you see—they have no concern for the pain of the innocent!" _

"Okay," Reid said, leaning back as far as possible, "Okay, alright, I'm sorry."

Reid kept silent as Sam turned around again, taking deep breaths to calm himself. After several minutes of silence, Sam returned to the computer.

"You know," Reid said suddenly, "Maybe I _could_ take a look at it; if we're friends, I mean. You'd have to undo my handcuffs, though. _Or, _we could go upstairs, and I could—"

"Spencer," Sam said interrupted, turning to face him, "I may not be as smart as you, but I'm not stupid." He got to his feet. "I have to go use the computer at the library. I'll be back soon."

"But—wait, Sam, please don't leave me down here again—I don't like the dark, and—"

"Bye, Spencer," Sam said. And with a wicked grin, he flicked off the light bulb, leaving Reid sitting alone in the darkness.

**Author's Note: Thanks for reading! And remember, reviews bring joy and happiness to the world (they also make me write a bit faster.)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you for reading and/or reviewing!**

Reid shielded his eyes against the light as the door opened. He had completely lost track of time; he couldn't tell whether he'd been waiting for hours or days.

"S-sam?" Reid called; at this point, he didn't care _who _it was, just as long as he didn't have to sit alone in a dark basement for any longer.

Sam closed the door behind him, then switched on the light bulb.

"Ah!" Reid squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his hands to his face. The bright light did nothing to assuage the migraine that had slowly but surely been building for the duration of his stay in the basement.

"Sorry I was gone for so long," Sam said, completely oblivious to Reid's pain, "I had to take care of some things."

"How…how long have I been down here?" Reid asked, trying to adjust to the light. "What time is it? What day is it?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "I've only been gone for four hours," he said, as if speaking to a child.

Reid blinked. "Only…only four hours?" He had to be lying.

Sam raised his eyebrows. "You don't like the dark much, do you?"

Reid shook his head. "There's…there's an inherent absence of light," he muttered, trying not to sound embarrassed.

Sam laughed. "Well, sorry I had to leave the light out, but you were pretty disrespectful to me."

Reid opened his mouth to retaliate; but then closed it, deciding that there were probably worse things Sam could be doing to him.

"Anyways," Sam said, "Does your previous offer still stand?"

Reid frowned. "Um…what previous offer?"

"To help me fix the computer," Sam said.

"Oh," Reid said. "Yeah, I…I could take a look at it." He held out his handcuffed arm, giving Sam an expectant look.

Sam laughed again. "Nice try, Sherlock," he said. He bent down, picked up the computer, and carried it over to where Reid was sitting, plugging it into a closer outlet.

"Listen," Reid said, "I've got a doctorate in engineering, not computer science, so I can't really guarantee—"

"Do you like water?" Sam interrupted suddenly.

"Do I…?" Reid trailed off, slightly confused. "Um, yes. Yes I do."

"Then fixing the computer is a good idea," Sam informed him. Reid felt a sense of foreboding pool in his stomach. Sam got to his feet and crossed the room, climbing the stairs. "See you soon, Spencer," he called, closing the door behind him.

Reid gritted his teeth and set to work, his throat feeling strangely dry all of the sudden.

"Project X," Teddy said, "Was created by Dr. Robert Stadler." The young intern seemed very nervous to have the attention of five FBI agents. "Um," he said, "It's kind of like…a weapon."

"In what way?" Hotch asked sharply.

Teddy glanced at the ground, scratching his neck nervously. "It's basically…the equivalent of an atomic bomb. A weapon of mass destruction. Except…well, it uses sound waves. In the book, there's a certain vibration that it reaches which causes the destruction of anything within a 100 mile radius."

JJ had begun to look fearful. "That doesn't actually exist…does it?"

"No," Hotch responded firmly.

Teddy took a step closer to the table, gaining a bit of confidence. "In the book, Dr. Stadler is _originally_ one of the good characters. He's…a _genius_ scientist; one of the best of his time; and he's trying to use sound waves to build the first ever automatic digital computer. But one of his staff members; Dr. Ferris; betrays him, and gives his secrets to the government. The government then _uses _the secrets to make…well, Project X."

"So the government takes credit for his work?" Hotch asked, wondering how Reid fit into all of this.

Teddy was already shaking his head. "Quite the opposite, actually," he said. "The government _forces_ Stadler to take credit for the invention; threatening to shut down his State Science Institute if he refuses. So, although he is disgusted by the invention, Stadler is forced to take credit for it on National Television. The public thinks the whole thing is his idea. After that, he's forced onto the side of those who are singlehandedly working to destroy the things he loves most; intelligence and innovation. Ironically, it is this that actually leads to the demise of the State Science Institute; which was the one thing he'd been trying to protect."

"If the unsub is John Galt, then Reid is Dr. Stadler," Rossi said. "This guy thinks Reid's selling himself to the government. It fits perfectly."

"What happens to Dr. Stadler?" Hotch asked.

Teddy gave a nervous laugh. "The State Science Institute gets taken over by thugs," he said. "Stadler returns to reclaim Project X. He gets into a fight with the leader of the thugs; Cuffy Meigs; who is unaware of the power of Project X, and is threatening to set off the machine. During the fight, Stadler pushes Meigs onto the lever, setting the machine off; and so, because he sold himself and his beliefs to the government, Stadler is ultimately destroyed by his own creation."

"_Project X is all that awaits you," _Morgan muttered. "This wasn't a threat to Reid at all; the unsub was trying to _save _him."

"What about the rest of the note?" Hotch asked. _"The damndest and guiltiest among us are those who _had _the capacity to know, yet _chose _to blank out reality…"_

"Yeah, that—" Teddy nodded, "That whole note is a quotation lifted directly from John Galt's speech."

"Speech?" Hotch asked.

"Yeah, John Galt hacks into a radio broadcast in order to address the country .The speech lasts about 60 pages," Teddy said.

"Jesus Christ," Morgan muttered, looking slightly overwhelmed, "The same character talks for 60 pages?"

Teddy shrugged. "Many readers saw the speech as a summation of Ayn Rand's philosophy; a manifesto, of sorts. Of course, in later, nonfiction works, she—"

"Okay, fine," Hotch said, waving his hand. "This whole note is from the speech?"

"Except for this last part," Teddy said. "The part in capital letters. These aren't quotes; they're paraphrased. It doesn't sound like her writing. I think the…" he swallowed nervously, "The killer wrote that part himself."

There was a knock on the door, and seconds later Garcia entered hesitantly. "Hotch," she said, "We just got a phone call from the local police department. They found another body."

By the time they had made it to the crime scene, it was 8 o' clock in the morning.

"Unsub's been busy," Morgan muttered.

"It's in a graveyard again," Prentiss said. She turned to one of the CSI technicians. "Have you got anything?"

The technician shook her head. "No fingerprints, footprints, hair or skin fragments…we're still looking, but based on the care taken with the other crime scenes I doubt we'll find anything."

Morgan raised his eyebrows. "You may say he's disorganized, Hotch, but this guy is smart. He hasn't made a single mistake. We haven't learned anything about him that he hasn't _wanted _us to learn."

Hotch shook his head. "I don't get it. What he did with Reid profiled as disorganized…but _this…"_

"He wasn't killed by strangulation this time," the technician interrupted. "A single .357 caliber bullet wound to the head. My guess would be a revolver."

Hotch felt a rush of anger and panic swelling inside his stomach. There was a beat of silence before he voiced what they were all thinking.

"He's using Reid's gun."

Reid's headache had gotten worse. It was becoming difficult to see, let alone think, but he was certain of one thing; there was no possible way to fix the computer. Not only was it almost thirty years old, but he was pretty sure it was also missing at least half of the parts necessary for its functionality.

"Sam!" he moaned. "Sam, come back!" Once he had given up trying to fix it, he had taken to picking up various parts of the broken computer and throwing them at the door, in a desperate attempt to gain his captor's attention. He felt a chill run up his spine, then licked his chapped lips. "SAM! Sam, I can't fix it…"

When was the last time he'd had water? He tried to think back to the day he'd been abducted. He'd had a cup of coffee at three…but he'd had nothing for dinner. They had been too busy working the case. Reid moaned, pressing his head against the wall. What time was it now? Well into the afternoon…it _had _to be. Reid was pretty sure he hadn't had water in at least twenty-four hours; probably longer.

What if Sam never came back? What if he decided to leave him here to die? What if his team killed Sam, but never found out where he was keeping Reid?

Reid knew what was going on here. He knew that the quickest possible way to make a hostage feel dependent was to deprive them of four things; human contact, light, food, and _water_. Sam wanted Reid to feel like he _needed _him.

Of course, Reid _knew _that, but all he could think about was how goddamn thirsty he was and how he would give his right arm if only Sam would come back downstairs with something to drink.

It was already seven o'clock at night and Hotch was in a very bad mood.

"Listen, Teddy, I asked for a book _summary," _he snapped, "And in most cases, the _summary _is _shorter _than the actual _book."_

Teddy turned bright red. "I…of _course, _sir," he said, "I'm sorry. It's just, every part is important, and—"

"I'm sure, Teddy, on a literary level, every part is important, but seeing as one of my agents is being held hostage by a delusional serial killer I'd really appreciate it if you'd—"

"Hotch?" JJ poked her head into the office.

Hotch turned around. "What?"

"Um…CSI just informed us of a note left at the crime scene."

Hotch blinked. "What do you mean, 'just informed us?'"

"Well—it was hidden in the victim's pocket, it took them awhile to find it; and they wanted to take it to the lab to get it analyzed for prints, so _apparently—"_

"Do you have a copy of it or not?" Hotch snapped.

"Yes," JJ said hurriedly, handing it to him. "Do you want me to call the team?"

Hotch shook his head. "No," he said. "Get copies to them, but just—tell them to keep doing what they're doing."

"Alright, sir," JJ said softly. "Do you need anything?"

"No," Hotch said stiffly, turning around.

"Hotch?"

"_What?" _he asked, spinning around in his chair again.

"This isn't your fault, you know. Just because he called _you_—there wasn't anything you could have done to—"

"I _know, _JJ," Hotch said wearily. "Thank you."

JJ nodded, then closed the door quietly. Hotch turned back to an increasingly intimidated looking Teddy.

"Wh-what's it say, sir?" he asked.

Hotch unfolded the copy of the letter and spread it out on his desk.

_To the FBI,_

_There might be some sort of justification for the savage societies in which a man had to expect that enemies could murder him at any moment and had to defend himself as best he could. But there can be no justification for a society in which a man is expected to manufacture the weapons for his own murderers. No human being can hold claim on another demanding that he wipe himself out of existence._

_DR. REID IS NO LONGER YOUR AGENT. HE IS JOINING US IN OUR STRIKE, AND IS REFUSING TO BE A VICTIM ANY LONGER. YOU WILL NEVER SEE HIM AGAIN. YOU MUST SURRENDER NOW, OR YOU WILL ALL BE DESTROYED._

~JG

**Thank you for reading everyone. Reviews make the world spin happier! I'm an insufferable narcissist, and therefore I love to hear what you think. **


	5. Chapter 5

Hotch hadn't really planned on falling asleep.

He and Morgan had both decided to keep working through the night, despite the protests of their teammates. Hotch had been about to re-read the case file when he had decided to rest his eyes for just a _few _minutes; only to be found the next morning by JJ with his head slumped over his desk and a cold cup of coffee.

"Ugh, JJ, what time is it?" Hotch moaned.

"Eight-thirty," she said curtly.

Hotch muttered a profanity.

"I told you, Hotch," JJ admonished him, "It's unhealthy to go longer than fifty hours without sleeping. Don't feel _too _bad about it, though—I woke Morgan up about three minutes ago. You alpha-males all seem to think you have super powers."

Hotch was about to defend himself when his phone rang; he blinked several times, trying to wake himself up. "Hello?" he answered, trying to sound professional and not like he had spent all night sleeping on a wooden desk.

"They've found another body, Agent Hotchner."

_Good morning to you, too._

"Where?" he asked, glancing meaningfully at JJ, "A graveyard?"

"St. Martin's Cemetery. It's at 487 Mayor's Street."

Hotch sighed. "We'll be right down," he said, getting to his feet, "Who was the victim?"

"We haven't identified him yet. The body is…well, you'll see it. Caucasian male, late twenties, slight build."

Hotch stopped dead, feeling a weight like lead in the pit of his stomach.

"Agent Hotchner?"

"We'll..we'll be right down," he whispered, trying to keep his voice steady.

_It's not him. The unsub doesn't want to kill him. It's not in the profile._

"Hotch?" JJ asked, her blue eyes large with worry. "Is everything okay?"

Hotch let out a long breath. "Everything's fine," he said, shaking it off. "Let's go."

They arrived at the cemetery at nine o'clock.

The sight of the body did nothing to improve Hotch's mood.

The face was half torn off, but the eyes were left unscathed and wide open; they stared blankly ahead, haunted and horrified. The mouth was gaping upwards towards the sky in a last, desperate scream. Hotch turned away from the body; although he was normally able to remain detached from the crime scenes, there was something about the eyes that stuck in his head…

"The unsub has a gun," Morgan said.

Hotch nodded slowly. "He didn't need to do this. There's something about this victim that's special to him. The other killings were clinical, utilitarian—this one was sadistic."

"He could just be evolving," Prentiss suggested.

Morgan bent down. "His eyes," he said.

"I know," Hotch muttered, "They're getting to me, too."

Morgan was shaking his head. "Not just that," he said. "It doesn't make sense. Look here—" he pointed to a large incision in the man's forehead. "The official COD was blunt force trauma to the head, wasn't it?"

Hotch nodded. "That's what they think."

"So, what kind of person keeps their eyes open while someone is beating them to death?"

Hotch nodded slowly. "Nobody," he said.

"Exactly. If this blow killed him—which it _must _have—he should have died with his eyes closed…"

Hotch turned to one of the remaining crime scene technicians. "Did any of you open this man's eyes, by any chance?" he asked.

The technician gave him a strange look. "No one has touched the body, sir," she said.

"The unsub opened his eyes after he killed him," Morgan said.

"Why?" Prentiss muttered.

Hotch shook his head slowly. "I don't know."

Reid was feeling dizzy.

The problem was that things were swimming. Everything was swimming very _strangely._ It had started a little while ago; time wasn't passing correctly anymore. Things had started to get _weird_.

He had been very lonely and upset. Wanting water and such. He had been pounding his fist on the wall and shouting, because Sam hadn't come back downstairs, and he had been rather concerned about dying from dehydration.

That was when the wall had asked him to please stop it.

This had confused Reid significantly; in his experience, the walls did not generally talk. And that was what had lead him to his current state of confusion; sitting there trying to figure out whether or not it made sense for the wall to be speaking. He was rather apprehensive to respond.

Then again, this wall had asked so _politely._

"I'm sorry," Reid said carefully, "I didn't realize I was hurting you."

"Well, what did you _think _you were doing?" the Wall asked, clearly irritated.

Reid didn't have an answer.

"That's what I _thought," _the Wall replied peevishly.

Reid was silent for a moment. Then he asked, "What's it like, being a wall?"

"Oh, it's _painfully _dull," the Wall replied gloomily. "You would not _believe _the hours I have spent _wallowing _in nihilistic depression."

"That's terrible," Reid said, pity gripping his heart suddenly and violently. He thought it over for several moments. "All of the walls I've come into contact with throughout my life; and I've never even given them a second thought!" He yawned, sliding sideways onto the floor and pressing his cheek to the wall.

"Terrible, terrible," the Wall chastised him sadly.

"It's a messed up world we live in," Reid said, feeling like he might cry.

Reid spent a long time talking to the Wall. After a minute or a year or an hour or so of talking, Reid decided that the Wall might be the best friend he'd ever made.

"What happens after you aren't a Wall anymore?" Reid asked curiously. He tried to lift his head to look at his new friend, but it was proving quite difficult.

"Well, I'll always be a _wall,"_ the Wall said, as if he thought Reid had gone crazy, "More than I can say for _you, _I suppose. I don't know if you'll always be what you are. That's why I don't get on _well _with most humans. They're so…_changeable._"

"But what if you get burned down?" Reid slurred, his words sounding strange and warped, "What if the building gets knocked over?"

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," the Wall said sadly, not really answering his question.

It was at this point that a strange light came into existence, coming from somewhere above his head. It was bright; _far too bright; _in fact, it was practically _burning. _ Reid screamed, reaching for the Wall.

"Listen, you've got to help me, I think I might be dying," he gasped desperately.

But the Wall didn't answer.

"Listen! LISTEN! YOU'VE GOT TO HELP ME!" Reid clawed at the Wall, trying to regain its attention; he felt hands grabbing him around his stomach, trying to pull him away from the Wall. "No! NO! WALL! HELP ME!"

But all of his strength wasn't enough. He heard a strange, euphonious, jingling sound as the phantom arms pulled him away from the Wall. Reid let out a strangled sob. "Please! _PLEASE!"_ He thrashed desperately; but the phantom was too strong. "I don't want to die! I'm not ready! Not again!" Things were going in and out of focus; everything was swirling, like water being pulled down a drain. He opened his mouth to speak again; it couldn't end like this, it just couldn't; they _had to let him go…_

But before he could speak, he seemed to get detached from his body; he was still talking, but had no control over the words. His sobs became softer and softer as he drifted away from his own voice; he couldn't tell if the arms were letting him go or if he was leaving himself.

He tried to speak one last time, but nothing came out; the world was tilting and spinning and he was so, _so, _dizzy…

He was being lifted up; were the phantom arms holding him, or was he floating?

It was very, very bright for a moment.

And then everything went black.

**Thank you for reading! Remember, reviewing is **_**super **_**fun. Oh, and happy Leap Day everybody : )**


	6. Chapter 6

**Thank you so much to anyone who has reviewed! I'm sorry it took me awhile to update this. Junior year is slowly sucking the life out of me. So it goes. I hope everyone likes this chapter!**

"Agent Hotchner, this is unacceptable."

Hotch rubbed his temples with his fingers, trying to tune out his supervisor's voice. "Agent Strauss, we—"

"Three weeks. You have been working this case for three weeks."

Hotch swallowed. "Technically, nineteen days. And since we—"

"And _Dr_. _Reid _has been missing for _seventeen_ days. There have been elevenmurders since his disappearance."

"Agent Strauss, I _know _the facts of the case!" Hotch exploded angrily.

"Do we need to assign this case to another team, Agent Hotchner?"

"Listen—"

"You have made no progress. _No progress._ I didn't realize that your team would become _incompetent _without Dr. Reid."

"_Listen_," Hotch growled, now seriously angry, "Although Dr. Reid is _obviously _an important part of the team, if you are somehow suggesting that the rest of the team is unfit to—"

"You haven't found anything since Dr. Reid was abducted."

"Yes," Hotch said, trying to breathe deeply, "Because of _lack of evidence._ We need to wait for this guy to make a mistake, to reveal something else about himself. And he hasn't left a note since the day after Reid was abducted, so—"

"What about the eleven other bodies?" Strauss snapped. "Would you consider those _evidence_, Agent Hotchner?"

Hotch shook his head. "Listen," he said, "You can't take us off the case. We _have _to find Reid. Just give us one more week, and—"

"Three days," she hissed, "Three days, and I'm reassigning you on the grounds that you are too personally close to the case."

Hotch gritted his teeth. "That's not enough time. We—"

"Or, I could reassign you right now," she suggested, raising her eyebrows.

Furious, Hotch got to his feet and exited the office, slamming the door behind him. His team was waiting for him in the bullpen.

"How long?" Morgan asked.

Hotch let out a long sigh through his teeth. "Three days," he said shortly.

There was a general murmur of anger and disapproval. "She can't possibly expect us to solve the case in three days!" JJ said, a distraught look coming onto her face.

"She doesn't," Hotch said shortly.

"Doesn't she know we're getting closer?" Teddy asked; it had been unofficially decided that he would continue to work with the team until the unsub had been caught, and he was currently sitting cross-legged on Reid's old desk.

"She doesn't care," Hotch muttered. "If we stay on one case for too long, it looks bad."

"But Spence is—"

"Enough," Hotch said, cutting JJ off, "We've got three days, and we're going to—" he broke off, annoyed, as his phone started ringing. "Hello?"

"Agent Hotchner? We've found another body."

Hotch shook his head slowly, absolutely mystified. "Already?" The last body had been found only four hours ago.

"Yes, sir."

Hotch sighed. "We'll be right down, I suppose," he muttered.

"Oh, Agent Hotchner?"

"_Yes?" _he demanded, as he had been just about to hang up.

"There was something left with the body this time."

Hotch felt a spark of hope kindling in the pit of his stomach. "A note?"

"No, sir. It's…well, it's a DVD."

"Garcia, are you ready?" Hotch asked. After a brief visit to the crime scene, the entire team had assembled in the conference room to watch the DVD left with the body.

"Firing away, sir," she said, then pressed play.

There was a bit of shuffling; soon, the grainy image of a chair, a table, and a white, blank wall came into focus.

"Inexpensive camera equipment," Rossi noted.

"Yeah, but he's smart," Prentiss said, "He's not giving anything about his location away."

There was a general intake of breath as a familiar figure stepped in front of the camera.

"Spence," JJ whispered.

Reid looked relatively unchanged; he seemed a bit thinner, with darker circles under his eyes and slightly longer hair; but other than that, his appearance was the same.

"He's okay," Garcia whispered happily.

"Shh," Hotch admonished her; there was conversation going on in the background, and Reid was looking somewhere beyond the camera. Eventually, he took a seat in the chair, folding both hands on the table. He looked directly into the camera.

"Hello, BAU," he said. Hotch frowned, straining to detect a trace of friendliness or fear or desperation or even hope in Reid's eyes.

There was none. His face remained blank, like a poker player evaluating his opponent's next move. He sat completely still, except for the occasional tapping of his pinky finger against the table.

"I have come to deliver a message," Reid said, with the innocent sincerity of someone speaking a message that was true by default; that had long since surpassed the need to be proven. "I have spent my life working to serve others. To fulfill the needs of the victims and their loved ones. I believed that it was my dutyto use my intelligence to serve society. This is what I was told. This is what I had been led to believe." Reid's eyes flickered ever so quickly away from the camera; but then they were back, and he began to speak again.

"I have found that contradictions do not exist. Wherever a contradiction lies, one must check their premises; and they will find that one side of the issue is wrong." He paused. "I was living inside a contradiction. In hunting down killers, I became a killer myself. In an attempt to protect the innocence of others, I have lost my own. I used logic and reason to defend a government whose actions were not logical or reasonable." Reid paused. "I have found that all of the problems of the word can be defined by a single truth; that A is A. A thing either is, or it isn't. Shades of gray do not exist; they are a government's attempt to make the whole world color-blind. And there is one contradiction that I will no longer stand for." Reid paused, sitting up straighter, and looked at the camera straight on.

" I will not allow the government to use my own intelligence against me. I will not allow myself to be exploited by a society working to eliminate my fellowmen; the men of the mind. I will not manufacture the weapons for my own destruction. I do not give my sanction. I will not be a victim." Reid's chest swelled, and his finger began tapping faster. "We are taking back our country. We are going on strike. A self destructive society is a virus that kills itself. I refuse to be the antidote, if it means that virus will kill me as well." Reid's gaze left the camera again, lingering longer this time. Finally, his eyes returned.

"We are leaving now. You will not find us until it is too late." There was a pause, and his voice became lower, and more furtive. "To my friends who are watching this; you owe society nothing; you owe the government nothing; the only moral obligation you have is to yourself. There is not much time left. _Get out now._ They have no concern for the pain of the innocent."

With that, Reid got to his feet and stepped out of the view of the camera. Seconds later, the image went fuzzy, then black. The seven team members stared at the screen in silence for several moments; before finally, Morgan spoke.

"Well, that was pretty freaking weird."

**Thank you for reading! Reviews equal love, people! **


	7. Chapter 7

**Thank you very much to anyone who reviewed! Again, sorry it took me even **_**longer**_** to update this time…junior year is **_**still **_**sucking the life out of me. Anyways, it basically gives the "message" from Reid's point of view. Italicized things are flashbacks. Thanks for reading!**

"I have come to deliver a message." Reid stared straight at the camera, unflinching, silently begging his team to understand. He could feel Sam's eyes boring into his forehead.

"_Where am I?" Reid had just woken up. His head hurt terribly, and he was wondering if he was dead or not. His voice sounded scratchy; it hurt to speak._

_Sam's face appeared above his. "You passed out," he said, "I brought you up here."_

_Reid sat up. The room was small, with pale walls and no windows. He looked to his right; there was an IV machine stationed beside his bed._

"_You could've _killed _me," Reid said angrily._

"I have spent my life working to serve others. To fulfill the needs of the victims and their loved ones. I believed that it was my dutyto use my intelligence to serve society. This is what I was told. This is what I had been led to believe." Reid paused and glanced at Sam. Sam nodded fervently, and motioned for him to keep going.

_Reid was trying to piece everything together in his head. "Where did you get all this medical equipment?" he asked eventually._

_Sam didn't answer._

"_Please," Reid said, "Sam, you almost killed me. I think I deserve to know what's going on here."_

"I have found that contradictions do not exist," Reid continued. "Wherever a contradiction lies, one must check their premises; and they will find that one side of the issue is wrong."

_Sam took a step forward. "The government thinks there's only one of me," he said softly, a dangerous smile playing on his lips._

_Reid stared. Did Sam have a partner? Reid tried desperately to reconcile this inside his head. That hadn't been in the profile._

"I was living in a contradiction. In hunting down killers, I became a killer myself. In an attempt to protect the innocence of others, I have lost my own. I used logic and reason to defend a government whose actions were not logical or reasonable."

"_Do you have a partner?" Reid asked. Sam turned away from him. He was silent._

"_I have…_leaders_," Sam said slowly._

"I have found that all of the problems of the word can be defined by a single truth; that A is A. A thing either is, or it isn't. Shades of gray do not exist; they are a government's attempt to make the whole world color-blind. And there is one contradiction that I will no longer stand for."

"_What do you mean, 'leaders?'" Reid asked. "How many of you are there?"_

_Sam turned around. He didn't meet Reid's eyes. "I can't say," he said eventually. He turned and walked away quickly as Reid stared after him, bewildered._

"I will not allow the government to use my own intelligence against me. I will not allow myself to be exploited by a society working to eliminate my fellowmen; the men of the mind. I will not manufacture the weapons for my own destruction. I do not give my sanction. I will not be a victim."

_It was a week after Reid had been abducted. He and Sam were sitting in the same room as before, starting up the old computer that Reid had finally fixed._

_Sam sighed. He got to his feet and walked into the other room. Reid peered after him curiously; that was the first time he had left Reid alone without locking the door._

_Several minutes later, Sam returned. "Listen," he said, "I'm not supposed to show you this. But you fixed the computer…and I just…I just feel_ _like I can _trust_ you."_

"We are taking back our country," Reid said. "We are going on strike. A self destructive society is a virus that kills itself. I refuse to be the antidote, if it means that virus will kill me as well."

_Sam pulled out a map and spread it out on the floor in front of Reid._

_Reid recognized it after less than a second. It was a map of Quantico headquarters; a _detailed _map of Quantico headquarters. "Sam," he said slowly, "Where did you get this?"_

_Sam swallowed nervously. "You can't let anyone know that I'm showing you this. They'll…they'll be furious with me. I'm in trouble enough as it is…"_

"We are leaving now. You will not find us until it is too late. To my friends who are watching this; you owe society nothing; you owe the government nothing; the only moral obligation you have is to yourself."

"_What are you saying?" Reid asked forcefully._

"_Listen. We are everywhere, Spencer. You can't escape us. Your only safe bet is to stay with me. That's why I took you—I was trying to save you."_

"_What are you saying?" Reid asked sharply._

_Sam pointed a finger at the map, then looked at Reid. "We've mapped out this building because we're planning to destroy it."_

"There is not much time left," Reid said, his eyes piercing the camera desperately, pleading with his team to understand what he was saying. _"Get out now._ They have no concern for the pain of the innocent."

Sam made a scissoring motion with his hands, indicating that the tape was over. Reid got to his feet hurriedly and stepped out of the view of the camera. Sam darted forwards and switched it off.

"That was good," Sam said. He reached over to a box in the corner and snapped a pair of latex gloves onto his hands. Carefully, he reached into the recorder, picked up the DVD, and put it in a plastic case.

"I think it'll get our message out," Reid said carefully.

"It'd better," Sam muttered. He turned to leave.

"Um, Sam?" Reid said, stepping forward. Sam turned around to look at him.

"What?"

"You don't…" Reid trailed off, thinking of how best to phrase what he was about to say. "I mean, I don't think you _really _need to leave the DVD with a body. You know?"

Sam folded his arms. "Why not?"

"Well," Reid said, "I've worked with the FBI for years. I know how they operate. Every time you kill, the BAU gets more information about you. They _learn _things. Send the DVD to them—send a messenger—but you don't need to kill anyone else."

Sam blinked at him. "But they're looters," he said. "They're second-handers. They deserve to die."

"Yes," Reid said, "I understand that. I'm just trying to help you out. I don't want you to get caught."

Sam paused for a moment, as if he were contemplating it. Then he shook his head. "I'm under direct orders to leave the DVD with a body," he said. "That's my job." He turned to leave again.

"Wait!" Reid called after him. "So. These…'leaders.' When am I going to meet them?"

Sam frowned in disapproval. "Spencer, I've already explained this to you. You _can't _meet them. They don't trust you as part of the movement. You're noteven supposed to know they _exist."_

"Right," Reid said hurriedly, "That's fine, I get it. Could you tell me their names, at least?"

Sam narrowed his eyes. "It's confidential," he said. "Why do you want to know? Whose side are you on, anyways, Spencer?"

"I'm on your side," Reid said quickly. "But the thing is—and you must understand this—I'm worried about my friends at Quantico. They're good people. If you're planning to attack them…I want to at least get my team out."

Sam crossed his arms angrily. "I see how it is, then," he said sulkily, like a child learning he was _not_ Reid's best friend, after all.

"All I'm saying," Reid said, "Is that you—and your leaders—should _think _about what you're doing, before you do it. My team members are good people; just misguided, like I was! Don't you want to save them too, Sam?"

Sam stood there for several moments, looking very confused. Finally, he nodded. "Alright," he said. "I'll mention it to the leaders."

"Thanks, Sam," Reid said, giving Sam a very validating sort of smile. "It means a lot."

Sam grudgingly returned his smile, then went to the door. "I'm s'posed to lock it," he said. "Policy, you know."

"Obviously," Reid said, returning his smile.

Sam closed the door.

Reid immediately returned to the computer. He had been trying to figure out how to work the internet all week; but was having no success. All he had been able to do was install Microsoft word and Solitaire, neither of which were a tremendous amount of help to him.

Reid knew that Sam wouldn't change anyone's mind about attacking a government base; but maybe he would delay them just long enough for Reid to get a message to his team.

Then again, there was also the possibility that Sam was a very, very delusional unsub that had just happened to gain access to an intricate map of the FBI's private headquarters.

Reid's deductive reasoning set to work, dismissing the notion as impossible. First of all, Sam was not organized or intelligent enough to have pulled off the entire operation by himself. Fifteen or sixteen bodies, with no evidence? Unlikely. Second of all, Sam didn't profile as extremely delusional. Gullible? Easily manipulated? Impressionable? Yes. Irresponsible? Yes. Recklessly violent? Slightly sadistic? Probably. But Sam was clearly not the brains of the operation; in fact, from the few conversations that he'd had with Sam, Reid wasn't even sure if Sam entirely understood the philosophy that he so fervently believed in.

Then the paranoia set in; as it always did when Sam left him alone. What if Sam got killed or arrested? What if no one ever came back for him? What if the video was all they had needed—and now they were going to kill him?

Reid pressed his hands to his face, trying to take deep breaths. He just wanted the team to find him. Sam had already come close to killing him once; although he was unsure whether that had been intentional or not. Either way, Reid hadn't left the room in over two weeks; and meanwhile, Sam was going around D.C. with _his _gun and murdering innocent people.

Reid let out a long sigh and leaned back, pressing his cheek against the wall. He was beginning to worry that his team would _never_ find him; or worse, that they would be killed before they had the chance.

And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

**Thank you for reading! Review bring flowers and rainbows to the world! **


	8. Chapter 8

"_To my friends who are watching this—_get out now._ They have no concern for the pain of the innocent."_

Hotch ran his hand through his hair. "He's trying to tell us something," he muttered.

"Obviously," Morgan replied. He had his back to the screen, both hands on top of his head. "But what the hell is he trying to tell us?"

"D-didn't you say," Teddy interrupted nervously, "That the criminal made him say all these things? And—and if he's reading it verbatim, then—then there _can't_ be a special message at all."

Morgan turned around. The three of them stared despondently at the screen for several moments.

"No," Hotch said eventually, "Reid would have given us _some _clue. He wouldn't have passed up this opportunity."

The stared at the cold, pale face of their companion, frozen on the screen in front of them. Hotch hit play again.

"_Hello, BAU," _Reid's voice said for what seemed like the thousandth time. _"I have come to deliver a message."_

"C'mon, Hotch," Morgan whined, "I've got it memorized by this point. Watching it again is not going to—"

"Wait," Hotch said.

Morgan waited. "What?"

"Look. Look at his hand."

"Look at his…what do you mean?"

"His finger's tapping."

Morgan raised his eyebrows. "I know, Hotch. He's stimming. He's nervous. We've already—"

"What if—" Hotch paused. "What if he couldn't _say _the message, but—"

"You think he's tapping it out in Morse code!" Teddy blurted suddenly, like a student wanting to be the first to answer a question.

Morgan frowned. "Does Reid even know Morse code? It's like the most outdated—"

"Morgan." Hotch raised his eyebrows. "Have you forgotten who we're talking about here? He probably read some book on it in the second grade and now…" he gestured towards the screen.

"But his hand isn't even in the screen the whole time," Morgan said. "He keeps moving it. So even if he _was _trying to send a message, there's no way we could—"

"Hotch," JJ poked her head in the office.

"Not now, JJ, we're—"

"The unsub attacked again," she said, interrupting him.

Hotch rolled his eyes. "What else is new? You go down to the crime scene, we'll—"

"No, listen," she said. "The person he attacked got away. And they think the unsub was injured."

They stared at her blankly for several moments, unable to believe that they stroke of luck they'd been praying for had finally come to fruition.

"Morgan, go with JJ to the crime scene," Hotch said hurriedly. "I want to interview this guy."

The "almost" victim appeared to be 22 year old Jacob Gates. Hotch approached the young man and sat down beside him.

"M'in t-trouble, aren't I?" Gates stammered, staring at the table.

"No, Jacob, not at all," Hotch said. "Why would you think that?"

"I s-s-_shot _a guy." Gates scratched at his neck nervously. "Wasn't my gun though. _Wasn't_ mine. He brought it h-himself."

"Alright," Hotch said smoothly. "Why don't you tell me what happened before this man attacked you?"

Gates swallowed. "I was going…I was headed on my way to rehab." He twitched nervously again. "I…I was four days clean until yesterday, me n' a couple of my buddies got a little bored an so we—"

"That's fine," Hotch said, trying to keep the conversation on track. "What did the man who attacked you look like?"

Gates blinked. "Big arms," he muttered. "Big eyes. B-big arms and big eyes."

"And he held a gun up to you?"

"Y-yeah. I was on my way to rehab when he held the gun up to me. I was four days clean until yesterday, we—"

"Did he say anything when he held the gun to you?"

"Y-_yeah. _He had this van and he says _get in, _real secret, like, like, he didn't want no one to see us, right, and so I get in the van, right, and the door shuts and I-I knew I was in some deep sh-shit then—" Gates shivered, wrapping his arms around his body.

"What happened then?" Hotch asked.

"W-we drove for a little while. He opened the door and we was in a graveyeard. Then he s-said somethin' I didn't really get—"

"What did he say?" Hotch demanded.

"H-he was saying, 'make a choice! Make a choice!' Lotsa other shit, too…I don't remember. But I didn't kn-know what choice he wanted me to make, s-so I asked him, and he got…" Jacob's voice trailed off, then got higher. "H-he got angry."

"What happened then?"

"Th-the gun went to my head—an I was s_-scared_." Jacob swallowed. "So I try to grab the gun again, but, but it doesn't work completely, and he tries to get it back—but, but, somewhere in the middle of it, it g-goes off…" Jacob took a long, deep breath. "Blood's everywhere. There was so much blood, and—and, I don't know. I tried to, to 'pologize or somethin', cause that just seemed right, but he—he gets in his van, all swearing and angry, and then he d-drives off…and so I ran to the s-station cause I didn't kn-know wheres else I could go, and…and I told the lady about the guy in the graveyard, and she done and call you…" Jacob sighed and folded his hands on the table, although they were still trembling like mad.

"Thank you, Jacob," Hotch said softly. Slowly, he got to his feet and exited the interview room. JJ was waiting outside.

"They're doing a DNA analysis of the blood on Jacob's shirt," she said.

"That could take days," Hotch muttered.

"Either way," JJ said. "The unsub doesn't have much time left. From the amount of blood on the shirt and the ground, he's going to need emergency medical care—and fast."

Reid was playing Solitaire.

The internet just refused to cooperate. Although Sam had _promised _him that the house got WIFI, Reid was now about 80% sure he had been lying. He couldn't fix the internet—he couldn't leave the room. All he could do was sit and wait.

Sitting and waiting was very boring.

Reid sighed, moving the king card to sit on top of the ace. Solitaire could get very monotonous after awhile, especially if you had an IQ of 187 and could finish the game faster in your head than on the screen.

That was when he heard the thudding.

Reid frowned for a moment, wondering where it was coming from. Had Sam locked himself out again?

"Sam?" Reid called.

He heard a strangled, choked cry; he recognized it immediately. Reid got to his feet. "Sam!"

The thudding got closer; it was almost as if someone was dragging themselves through the house, and kept falling over. "I'm in here, open the door!" Reid pounded his fist on the door.

Reid felt a final thud; someone had flung themselves against the door. Reid was frozen, listening, for a full minute as someone fumbled with the keys, obviously trying very hard to unlock the door.

"Sam?" Reid called, slightly confused. "Are you alright?"

Suddenly, the door flew open; Reid let out a yelp of surprise as someone fell on top of him, knocking him over. Reid got to his feet, astonished, and stared down.

His captor lay before him in a pool of blood.

"Sp-Spencer," Sam gasped, "H-help—" He began coughing suddenly; his eyes were cloudy and dazed, and blood was running from his mouth.

Reid felt a rush of adrenaline and panic, immediately falling to his knees to help support the weight of Sam's body. "Alright, listen, I'll just call 9-11 and they'll—"

"Shh," Sam attempted to hold a finger up to Reid's lips; he missed by a wide margin. "You…you don't wanna do th-that."

Reid had already begun to move; but he froze at Sam's words. "Why not?" he asked sharply.

Sam began to laugh; the laugh was high pitched, eerie, frightened. Sam's large eyes widened a little bit more; then he leaned close to Reid as if he was about to share a dark secret.

Sam's lips moved for several moments, trying to form words. Finally, he managed to speak.

"They're coming," he choked out, his voice sounding derisive and horrified all at the same time. "I'm sorry, Spencer."

And then he collapsed.

**Thank you for reading! Please tell me what you think, I'd love to know : )**


	9. Chapter 9

**Hello! Thank you very much to anyone one who has read or reviewed. I apologize for not updating for so long. The reason was a combination of too much work, a lack of caffeine, and debilitating laziness on my part. **

**Just for reference: Dominique Francon is a character from a different Ayn Rand book, **_**The Fountainhead.**_** I have not injected the character into this story, but one of the new characters is using this name as a pseudonym.**

Reid was frozen.

His brain was screaming at him frantically. _What's wrong with you? Get going! Call the police! Run away! Get help! Do something!_

Reid shook his head slowly, dazed. _Shut up, _he thought to himself. Although every instinct told him to run, Sam's words continued to resonate in his head:

_They're coming._

It was not panic that held him in place any longer; it was indecision. Like a chess game—there was a right move here—he _knew _there was.

_It's never the most obvious move, _Reid thought to himself, _That's what your opponent is expecting. _

_What_ opponent? Who was coming, if anyone?

Reid stared at Sam for a moment; his eyes caught sight of the hole in Sam's shirt. He blinked, then his brain quickly switched into a more familiar mode.

_What do you know?_

Well, there were three things.

First, his captor had just been shot in the stomach and was bleeding to death on the floor. Second, said captor had obviously cared enough about Reid's well-being to let him out of the bedroom and give him some sort of a warning.

Reid felt a pang of something—guilt? Pity? He banished it immediately. It wasn't the time for guilt or pity. It wasn't the time for emotions. It was time to use the one thing that could save him—save all of them—his brain.

Third thing; a cell phone had just fallen out of Sam's pocket. It was covered in smudged, bloody fingerprints; which meant that Sam had tried to call somebody _after _he'd been shot.

Reid bent down and reached into Sam's pocket, trying to avoid the slow but steady pool of blood that was congealing on the floor around him. Sam moaned slightly, but otherwise remained still. Reid stepped away from him and flipped the phone open, staring at the call history. Had Sam tried to call 911?

Apparently not. There was only one call made today—in fact, there was only one contact in the phone.

_Dominique Francon._

Several things clicked into place at that moment. Reid glanced at Sam, who had long since gone unconscious; he glanced at the phone.

_Life is just a game of chess. People are nothing but pawns and puppets; if you pull the strings in just the right way, they'll always end up dancing for you; whether they know it or not._

He dialed the number.

It rung only once before he heard a voice on the other end. The voice did not wait for him to speak.

"Sam, I've already told you, we've sent help. There's no need to do anything rash. If you let Dr. Stadler out, you will jeopardize the entire operation. "

This was a man speaking; he sounded rushed and irritated. Reid cleared his throat.

"Hello? Is this Dominique Francon?" Reid asked, trying to inject a note of panic into his voice.

"Who…who is this?" the voice asked slowly. This man was more than confused; he sounded horrified.

"Yes, hello. This is Dr. Spencer Reid. I've been staying with Sam for the past month or so. He's been hurt; _really _hurt, I mean. Someone shot him or something. He said that Dominique Francon was the only person who could help him. Are you Dominique Francon?" Reid didn't give the man a chance to answer. "Listen, you _have _to help us! I'm not a medical doctor. I don't know what to do. _Please, _send _someone_!"

"I…" the man trailed off. _Now _he sounded confused.

"Well? Can I speak to her or not?" Reid demanded angrily.

"You…_you _can't speak to her…" the man muttered. It sounded like he was having a conversation with someone off to the side.

"Are you _doing _anything?" Reid demanded furiously.

"We…we cannot disclose…why are you calling this—"

Reid dropped the phone from his ear when he thought he heard a noise at the front door, listening intently. He could hear voices. Hurriedly, Reid hit the speakerphone button and returned it to his ear.

"Yes, hello? Sorry." Reid turned his back to the door, facing away from Sam. "I think someone's here. You _did _send someone, didn't you? I hope you did. I—"

"Drop the phone, doctor." Reid froze, allowing a slow smile to spread across his face for a moment before he resumed his previous expression of panic. He turned around, hands above his head. In front of him was a pair of men wearing identical gray T-shirts with dollar signs on them; and with identical guns pointed at his head.

Reid raised his eyebrows. "That seems a little rude," he said.

"_Drop _the phone, doctor," the one on the left repeated.

Reid didn't drop the phone. They weren't going to shoot him; not yet, anyways. "Aren't you going to help him?" he asked. "I sure as hell hope _you're _with Dominique Francon."

Suddenly, the voice on the phone had apparently returned. "Hello, Dr. Reid. Please remain where you are until help arrives for you."

Both of the gunman stared at the phone, now completely bewildered.

"Help _has_ arrived," Reid said to the phone, "but considering there is a man lying on the ground with a bullet in his stomach, they seem to be surprisingly fixated on me."

The men stared at him.

Reid inhaled deeply. The purpose of this was _not _to make fun of them. _Stop being nervous, you're making a fool out of yourself. Sam is your best friend now. Make it convincing._

"You don't look like doctors," Reid despairingly. "Are you?"

"We—" the man on the left broke off. "We, um, we thought he'd be D.O.A." The still kept their guns up. The man on the phone was having another side conversation as the situation became more and more confusing for him.

Reid shook his head vigorously. "He wasn't dead about a minute ago, so chances are he's still alive. You need to get him some help_, _or he's going to die!"

They stared at him for a beat longer; the two men exchanged a glance, then the one on the right; nearest to Sam; knelt down and checked his pulse.

"Give me the phone," the other man commanded, attempting to regain control of the situation. Reid snapped it shut and tossed it to him. "Listen," the man said, in a way that seemed authoritative yet imploring at the same time. "We're under direct orders…."

"To come here and get me, before I called the police?" Reid asked. The man nodded, as if he were almost relieved that Reid had answered for him.

"Yeah. But, hey—why _didn't_ you call the police, doctor?" He frowned suspiciously.

Reid kept eye contact. "Didn't you see my tape?"

The man blinked. "Yeah, but—Sam said he _made _you say that stuff."

Reid shrugged, laughing slightly. "Doesn't surprise me," he said, "He wanted to impress your leaders. He was always like that—trying to impress people." Reid glanced sideways, trying to gauge the other man's reaction.

Reid could see it in the body movement; the gun was still pointed at him, but years of profiling told him that the man had begun to relax ever so slightly. Reid continued to keep the anxious expression on his face, his hands up.

"Yeah, he was like that, I guess," the man mumbled, parroting what Reid had just said. "But, I mean—he _kidnapped _you and stuff."

Reid grinned, as if what the man had said was amusing to him. "I'm an _FBI Agent_," he said didactically. "You can't _kidnap _an FBI Agent."

"You can't?" The man frowned. "Really?"

"No—are you kidding? All of the heightened security measures! Everyone hates the government—you know. We get extra protection."

Reid could see the gears turning in this guy's head. "So you came to live here…just cause you wanted to?"

Reid nodded. "Sam and I have been friends for years. We met in a coffee shop. I needed to get away from the FBI for awhile. Of course, the _story _was that I had been kidnapped…"

"Oh," the man said. He frowned to himself, obviously reevaluating the situation. Reid almost wanted to laugh—apparently, the organization did _not _use their most intelligent members for these types of expeditions. Reid glanced down at Sam.

"How's he doing?" Reid asked, furrowing his brow; he kept forgetting to act gravely concerned.

"I think he's dead," the other man said glumly. "But I don't know how to check for a pulse properly. Maybe he's not. I'm no doctor or anything. Dominique said he was dead on arrival."

"That _is_ what she said_,_" affirmed the man who was pointing the gun at Reid.

"Here, let _me_ check," Reid offered. "He's _my _friend. I'll _know."_

"Well, no…you can't—"

"Trust me," Reid said, already moving so sit near the body. He moved his finger to Sam's neck; sure enough, there was a steady pulse there. Sam was still alive.

"He's dead," Reid said somberly. He got to his feet, staring at Sam as if stricken by grief. The other two men stood tensely by, as if unsure what to do.

"We've been friends for longer than I can remember," Reid said. "He was the one that taught me everything—_everything_. The corruption. The _blindness. _I was blind to the evil, but he—" Reid broke off suddenly, as if too choked up to go on.

"Er—_listen, _doctor," the talkative one said. "Um, I'm sorry about this, and all, but we're actually supposed to apprehend you."

Reid pretended not to hear him. He turned to the one without a gun and grabbed him by the shoulders. "Listen," he said, "You have to help him—you're the doctor—please, do something!"

"Um, no, I—I'm n-_not_ actually a doctor," the man stammered, clearly terrified. The one with the gun was now pointing it at both of them, looking panicked and still very confused. "I-I used to w-work at a mattress company."

Reid sat down on the ground and buried his head in his hands. "Please," he said, "Can I just have a minute alone? _Please?"_

The two men stared. "Uh…yeah," the mattress one said eventually. "Yeah, okay, just take a moment, man."

"Then we're going to apprehend you," the talkative one said. "We're waiting right outside, so—no funny business. Kay?"

Reid didn't answer but continued to stare at the body. The two men exited the room; once they were gone, Reid glanced into his shoulders, then buried his hand in Sam's jacket pocket. Could it be? Maybe?

Yep. Sam was carrying his gun.

Reid paused for a moment. It was almost too easy. He grabbed the gun and stuffed it deep inside his jacket, then reached over and checked Sam's pulse; to his relief, it had finally stopped. Reid sat up, then called to the two men; making his voice sound hoarse, as if he had been crying.

"Are we going to see Dominique?" Reid called.

The talkative one poked his head back in. "You don't _go see _Dominique," he said. "She's going to see _us_. We have to meet it's a _classified _location, though. Come on."

"Aren't you going to bring Sam's body?" Reid asked.

The two stared at him.

"Dominique didn't say anything about his body," the talkative one said.

"Yeah, she sent us here to get _you,_" the mattress one added.

Reid raised his eyebrows. "It must be really relaxing," he said, "To have someone else make all the decisions for you. That must take a good deal of the stress off."

They stared at him again. Reid gave them a very encouraging smile.

"Yes, it's very relaxing," the mattress one said.

"Dominique is a very relaxing person," the talkative one agreed, "She makes all the tough decisions for you. Sometimes, it's really tough to know what to do—but she _always_ _does. _We're lucky to be working for her, so we don't get exploited by the looters."

"She knows," the mattress one said, as if this point had not previously been made clear.

Reid raised his eyebrows. "I'm sure she does," he said. He then allowed himself to be led towards the van, the gun pressing up against his chest.

He couldn't wait to meet Dominique Francon.

**To be continued soon. This chapter was originally one long, 5,900 page chapter, but that just seemed really out of balance with the rest of them so I cut it in half. Please leave a review—it would make me quite happy! If I made a mistake—or many—please tell me! I am writing this at 1:30 in the morning and, as a result of my debilitating laziness, I am not going to be able to proof read it. **

**Happy Wednesday!**


	10. Chapter 10

**So, I realize that there has been a slight delay in my updates of this story (okay…so I haven't updated in three months.) But now that school is over, and I realized that I have inordinately large amounts of this weird thing called "free time," I remembered that this account existed and that I had a story I'd left half-done. Since I **_**hate **_**unfinished things, I am now going to write the end of this story; whether or not anyone actually reads it. I hope to be updating much more frequently now (to make up for all of the non-updates from before.) So I'd like to give many thanks to anyone who continues to read the story, even after the absurdly long amount of time I went without updating.**

**Thank you for reading!**

"You are a fascinating individual, Dr. Reid."

Reid blinked, then glanced up slowly. The woman sitting before him had strange, platinum blonde hair, tied in a vicious knot at the back of her head. She could have either been twenty-five or forty-five; Reid really couldn't tell, as her face and the whole room was shrouded in darkness.

So this was Dominique Francon.

"Thank you," he said eventually. He met her gaze for a moment then looked away, not wanting to appear confrontational.

"You two can go," Dominique Francon said dismissively to the pair of men who had escorted Reid into the room. Immediately, the two of them turned around and hurried out of the room, closing the door behind them.

Reid glanced up again. "This is quite an organization you've got going here," he said.

"Don't give me that, Dr. Reid." Reid stared at Dominique in surprise. She was eyeing him shrewdly, with an expression of amusement and the faintest hint of irritation. "Do you think I don't know what you're trying to do?"

"I'm not trying to do anything," Reid said, keeping his voice level.

"You thought," Dominique said, "That you could…what? Gain my trust? Infiltrate and overthrow my organization?"

Reid shook his head vigorously. "I was only acknowledging for admiration of your—"

"I don't like it when people try to manipulate me," Dominique snapped.

Reid glanced up at her; he weighed the options of sticking with his original plan and risking making her angrier; or admitting defeat now, because Dominique Francon was _clearly _not buying it.

"Dr. Reid," she said, with a sigh, "Did you think that because all of my _men _were insufferable morons, that _I _was, as well?" Reid met her gaze; she was looking at him knowingly.

He shrugged.

Dominique Francon burst into laughter. "Well, it wasn't a bad try," she said. "It worked with those two—and _Sam_—but then again, those three are some of the most laughable imbeciles I have ever—" She broke off, then shook her head, still chuckling to herself. "Oh, and Dr. Reid—something else." She gave him a cruel-looking smile. "I have about three men pointing guns at your head right now. So, it would be advisable for you to cooperate with what is about to happen."

"What?" Reid asked; he heard a door open behind him, and a different pair of men walked into the room; their stony faces and dark eyes gave Reid the impression that they were very different from the two men that had brought him here.

"Hands on your head, Dr. Reid," Dominique Francon said, smiling sweetly.

Cursing himself inwardly, Reid brought his hands to his head and stood facing Dominique Francon. Two pairs of hands began roughly patting him down; eventually making their way into his jacket pocket and pulling out the gun.

For the first time, Dominique Francon looked shocked; he guessed that she had merely meant to frighten him with the pat-down, and had not expected to actually find any weapons on him. However, the shock only remained for an instant before her face had returned to its original expression.

"I _am _impressed, Dr. Reid," she said slowly. "But I suppose I shouldn't have expected anything else. I have high hopes for your future here." Then she turned her gaze to the three men. "I think he's ready," she said smugly.

The next thing Reid knew, something was being plunged deep into his back; he let out a loud scream of anguish, but it only lasted a moment; he became aware of his knees hitting the ground, and then the floor coming into contact with the side of his face; but he couldn't _feel_ the ground properly anymore. He opened his mouth to speak, but he could not; seconds later, everything went black.

"Are you _kidding _me," Morgan muttered, shaking his head slowly. "Reid, goddamnit—stop _moving_ your _hand._"

"Well," Teddy said, nervously, "We're _kind _of getting a message."

"Oh yes, Teddy," Morgan snapped sarcastically, "Map, doctor, group. That's _really _helpful."

"You forgot about 'a zack,'" Teddy said excitedly.

"Teddy, I really I don't think we're interpreting that correctly," Hotch called from the other side of the room. "But at least we've learned that Reid _was _trying to send us a message—even if we can't quite decode it properly. _And _we know that he's alive, which is certainly a—" Hotch broke off as his phone started ringing. "Hello? Yes?" There was a pause. Hotch snapped the phone shut, then turned to Morgan. "They've found the man whose blood was on Jacob's jacket," he said.

Reid awoke in a dark room with a massive headache and the horrible feeling that he was about to throw up. Moaning, he got to his feet; after groping the dark for several moments, he ascertained that he was in some sort of closet.

Reid immediately began pounding on the door. "Hello?" he called, his mind feeling foggy. "Dominique? Hello? Anyone there? Is anyone—" He broke off as a beam of light suddenly appeared in the door; he called out in pain and shielded his eyes. As his eyes adjusted, he noticed a small window that had appeared in the door; a pair of eyes stared back at him.

"Hello?" Reid called hopefully. "Are you going to let me out? I'm sorry about the gun. I really am. I don't know what I was thinking. But please don't leave me here, I almost died of dehydration not that long ago, and—"

"_Silence!" _A voice snapped at him; although it was clearly coming from the man on the other side of the door, it was able to reach his ears with piercing clarity. Reid fell silent, and stared at the door.

"You have proved yourself worthy of examination," the voice said. "Now, you are about to be tested. After your examination has concluded, Dominique will reach her decision."

"Wh—what test?" Reid stammered. "What decision?"

He saw the eyes narrow malevolently, as if the face on the other side was giving him a wicked sort of grin.

"If you pass the examination," the voice said, "Then Dominique will decide that you are worth keeping. However, if you fail…" the voice trailed off maliciously.

"Alright, what _if?_" Reid snapped, irritated. "What _if _I fail?"

He heard a snigger from the other side of the door. "We have no use for failures here, Dr. Reid," the voice said arrogantly. "You will be disposed of immediately." Then the window slammed shut, and Reid was thrust into darkness once more.

Hotch stared at the body in front of him with a grim expression. "He bled to death," he muttered to Morgan, "Slow and painful. He must have driven all the way back here in this condition…" Hotch trailed off slowly, shaking his head in wonder.

"Who cares about _him?_" Morgan snapped, pacing back and forth anxiously. "Where the hell is _Reid?_"

Hotch shook his head slowly. "There's a lock on the outside of this door," he muttered, "A bed, a bathroom, all the necessities…this _must _have been where Reid was being held."

"Then _why _isn't he _here?_" Morgan demanded angrily.

Hotch walked around the body. "The unsub came back," he muttered, "Unlocked the door, so that anyone trapped inside could get out..."

"Obviously," Morgan muttered. " So…_where in the hell is Reid?"_

The stood there in awed confusion.

"You guys," Prentiss said from the corner, "Look at this."

They walked over towards her, only to be confronted with a large map of the BAU headquarters.

"How the hell do they _have _this?" Hotch muttered dazedly. "This isn't exactly something you release to the public…and this isn't just a _map,"_ he realized suddenly. "This is a—" he exhaled in amazement. "This map has rooms on it that most of the _employees _don't know about—look, every single evacuation route is highlighted." He shook his head slowly. "How did these people get a hold of a map of this detail?"

"Map!" Morgan exclaimed excitedly.

They all turned to him. "Yes, Morgan," Hotch said, raising his eyebrows, "We know that it's a map."

Morgan shook his head. "No—_map. _One of the words that we were able to decode."

They all paused for a moment, thinking.

"Well," Hotch said, "Reid was definitely _here._ The question is—where is he now?"

Reid was sitting in a chair.

He was extremely happy to be sitting in this chair, seeing as he had just spent the last twenty-four hours or so sitting in a closet on the floor. He had also been given a drink of water and a peanut butter sandwich; something that he was immensely pleased about, because this meant that he was most likely not going to have another near-death dehydration experience like the one he'd experience with Sam.

However, now that the meal was over, Reid felt a sense of foreboding pool up inside his stomach as he looked at the woman in front of him.

"Well, Dr. Reid," Dominique Francon said, "Are you ready to start your examination?"

He cleared his throat. "Well," he said hesitantly, "What _sort _of examination am I starting?"

She smiled. "I will give you the rules," she said. "This test has five rounds. For each round, you will be given a question, which you will have exactly twelve hours to answer. If you answer correctly, you move onto the next round; if you answer all five questions correctly, you will pass the test."

"Oh," Reid said, somewhat relieved; he had always been good at answering questions.

"However," Dominique said, "If you answer a question _wrong_, you fail the test. You only have _one chance _to answer each question correctly—understand?"

Reid nodded. "I understand," he said.

She smiled at him. "Excellent," she said. "We'll begin, then. And remember, Dr. Reid—each question has only one correct answer." Then, she got to her feet and exited the room.

Reid frowned, looking around quizzically. However, not thirty seconds had passed when the door opened, and a boy who looked no older than eight entered the room. He was holding a slip of paper.

The child approached him with his head down, placed the piece of paper in his lap, then made to exit the room.

"Hey, wait!" Reid called. But the boy paid no attention to him and exited quickly, slamming the door behind him.

Frowning, Reid glanced down at the piece of paper; a number one had been written on the front. He stared at the paper with a sense of trepidation and nervousness, with the slightest hint of arrogance. Sure, this question was important—but he had an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory. If anyone had a shot at answering questions or solving riddles, it was _him. _Reid took a deep breath, opening the paper; there were only six words written. Reid's mouth fell open in indignation and anger as he stared at the sentence written there.

_What is the meaning of life?_

Reid turned the card over in disbelief, hoping for more clarification; one single sentence was written.

_Don't forget: there is only one correct answer._

Reid blinked at the card, then turned towards the door. "That isn't a fair question!" he shouted furiously. "Do you think this is _funny? _You gave me something I _couldn't_ answer! _Nobody _knows the answer!"

He was met by ringing silence. His heart accelerated nervously as it dawned on him that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't _supposed _to answer the question correctly.

He shook his head slowly. "Fuck," he muttered.

It was going to be a long night.

**Thank you for reading! If you are currently in a kindhearted mood, I would very, **_**very**_** much appreciate any reviews or feedback that you can give me. Happy July!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Many thanks to anyone who left a review! To my fellow Americans; Happy Fourth of July! (To everyone else; well, there's no reason why you can't **_**still **_**have a Happy Fourth of July)…well, anyways! Thanks for reading! :)**

"This is unbelievable," Garcia muttered, clicking rapidly. Hotch frowned over her shoulder, staring at the computer screen; he had no idea what was going on.

"What's unbelievable?" he asked after a moment.

She turned her chair around towards him. "Sir, these people have…_everything. _All the information about Quantico, everything on all of the employees, past _and _present…" She shook her head wordlessly.

"And that was all on Sam's computer?" Hotch asked.

She shook her head. "No, I hacked into the network—_Sam _didn't have access to any of this," she muttered, "But _someone_ certainly does."

Reid woke with a start; he experienced a moment of extreme confusion before he was brought back to reality. Then, he focused his attention on the noise that had awoken him; it was the same eight year old child he had seen yesterday.

"Your time is up," the boy said, approaching him; he had a very pale face and dark hair.

"What's your name?" Reid asked the boy, hoping to distract him.

The kid ran his hand through his hair, then glanced behind him, as if to check if anyone were watching. "Stephen," he said, eventually.

"What are you doing here, Stephen?" Reid asked.

Stephen eyed him suspiciously. "I live here," he said, narrowing his eyes. "And your _time. _Is _up._"

His hands trembling, Reid reached into his pocket and withdrew the piece of paper. He hadn't written anything.

"One moment," he muttered to Stephen, then quickly scribbled two words on the paper. Stephen took the paper and exited.

The next few moments felt like years; by the time the door opened again, Reid had no idea if ten minutes or an hour had passed.

It was Stephen again. He walked up to Reid and handed him another folded piece of paper; then he turned and walked out of the room. This piece of paper had the number two written on the front.

"Wait!" Reid called after Stephen. The boy stopped and turned around. "Does this mean…did I get it _right_?"

Stephen rolled his eyes. "What do _you _think?" he asked. Then he slammed the door.

Reid grinned to himself, a wave of relief washing over him; then he opened the piece of paper.

_5 + 5 = ?_

Reid stared at the piece of paper in irritation; he flipped it around to the back, but there was nothing written there. He blinked, then stared at the piece of paper.

It couldn't really be that easy?

He frowned to himself. Maybe it _was _that easy. Maybe he was _supposed _to over think this and get it wrong; maybe they wanted him to obsess over it all night, looking for a trick where there was none.

He stared at the piece of paper for a moment longer. Then again, Dominique Francon would have _known _that he would know that he was supposed to over-think it; so what if she was _really _trying to get him to _not _over think it, when he _needed _to over think it?

"Shut up, goddamnit," Reid muttered to himself. "It's _five plus five."_

But his brain simply _would not _shut up; it continued whirring around, thinking of all of the multitudes of possibilities of scenarios that _Dominique _had been think of when she'd written the question, and how any one of those scenarios could result in a different answer other than _ten, _which was _clearly _not the answer, because it _wasn't _clever enough, it wasn't _poetic _enough, there was something _else, _something he was _missing…_

Reid could tell that it was going to be another long night.

"I just don't get it," Hotch muttered to Morgan, "Who _are _these people?"

"It's most likely a cult, Agent Hotchner," Teddy piped up nervously.

"A…what? A cult?" Hotch frowned, turned his head towards Teddy. "Based on a _book?"_

"Well," Teddy said, "Not on the _book, _specifically. It's around the…_philosophy._ It's called Objectivism." Teddy took a deep breath. "Also known as 'Randism…' although Ayn Rand didn't really like that name," he said, pensively. "She wrote a few books on it when she was older."

"But this book was published in the fifties," Morgan said, "Are these 'cults' still around?"

"Oh, yes," Teddy said eagerly. "Actually, sales of _Atlas Shrugged _have skyrocketed ever since the beginning of the economic recession."

"So what exactly do these…'Objectivists' believe?" Hotch asked.

"Well," Teddy said. "They're basically a _very _extreme form of Libertarians. They believe in capitalism, individualism, and atheism; but most importantly, they believe in absolute truth. That something either _is _or _isn't—_no shades of gray." He nodded once to himself. "They don't have _any _respect for subjective reality; hence the name, _Objectivism. _They think that man should value his reasoning mind over everything else—_never_ his emotions. So, they believe that man should be able to use his reason to answer life's moral and philosophical questions."

"So…there's only one right answer to what's ethical and what's not?" Hotch asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Theoretically," Teddy said. "If there _is _such thing as an objective reality; as the Objectivist philosophy states; and there is _also _such thing as objective _morality; _then it would be _assumed _that we would all come to the same conclusion when evaluating philosophy and reality. That is assuming, of course, that we are all _reasoning _correctly. If there is a discrepancy in our beliefs, then one side is right and one side is wrong; we cannot _both _be right, because then that would be assuming a _sub_jective system of morality." Teddy grinned. "That's why she hated Kant so much."

"How many of these cults _are _there?" Hotch asked incredulously.

"Well," Teddy said, "There are a fair amount; but I mean, compared to the amount of people who consider themselves Objectivists, a relatively small amount of them actually make up the various Objectivist _cults_. The people who do are mostly…well, they're mostly whackjobs, to tell you the truth. I mean, the novel advocates _individualism; _so forming a cultseems a little contradictory." He rolled his eyes. "But I've never heard of one of the cults actually issuing _threats _against the government. Most of the cults just sit in circles and read the book over and over and talk about how they're intellectually superior to everyone else—but they've never been in trouble with the law before. That _I _know of, anyways." Teddy shrugged. "So these guys are really a _special _form of crazy, I guess."

"These people must have some moralproblem with what the government is doing," Morgan said. "Or, more specifically, the FBI. And now they see violence as the only way to stop us. We already know they kidnapped Reid because they saw him as a victim—they were trying to _save _him—or Sam was, anyways. But if they see _him _as a victim, how do they see us?"

"Evil," Hotch said grimly. "This killer—Sam—was only a small piece of a larger goal. If they _are _planning an attack on Quantico, we don't have a lot of time. We need to figure out what their endgame is, figure out where their _headquarters _is, and cut this thing off at its root."

"But once we _do _find it," Morgan said, "What are we going to do? Attack it?"

"It depends on how evolved this organization is," Hotch said. "We don't know very much about these people in the first place—we can't afford to hesitate once we find where they've established themselves."

"So if we _do _attack it," Morgan said, stiffly, "How are we going to take it down without risking killing_ Reid?"_

Hotch was silent for a long moment. "I don't know," he said eventually. "But we can't make this personal, Morgan. We don't even know if he's still alive."

Morgan gritted his teeth angrily. "The video—"

"Proves that he was alive _when the video was made,_" Hotch said, grimly. "Once Sam died, the dynamics changed significantly. Hell, they might just be using him asa deterrent for attack, by this point. They might want us to _think _he's still alive, so that…" Hotch trailed off, then shook his head. "You're right, Morgan," he said suddenly, "We have to assume he's still alive. We'll assume he's alive until we find a body. Meanwhile," he nodded at the group of agents sitting around him, "Let's get to work. We need to find out everything we can about these people, and fast."

Reid had fallen asleep again before Stephen reentered the room. Reid frowned at the boy as he approached with his hand outstretched.

"Stephen," Reid said, "Why does Dominique send _you _in here? Why doesn't she come in herself?"

Stephen paused, then swallowed nervously. "I offered to," he said. "I like this job."

Reid frowned quizzically. "Really?" he asked.

Stephen nodded shyly, his eyes on the ground. "I like to talk to some of you, a little bit," he said. "I don't get to…" he trailed off. "Well, _anyways…_I usually end up sad."

"Why?" Reid asked.

Stephen finally looked up, meeting his glance. "People like you," he said softly, "They never last to the end."

Reid felt his chest constrict in panic. Robotically, he reached his arm forwards and handed his answer to Stephen. "How long have you lived here?" he asked Stephen, his voice sounding hoarse.

Stephen paused, then turned around. "I was _born _here," he said, smiling as if it was a ridiculous question.

"You…you were?" Reid asked. "Are you sure?"

Stephen smiled, then walked closer to him. "You're much nicer to me than the others," he said, "All the _others _just ask me to set them loose, and then _yell _at me when I don't." He pouted angrily.

"Stephen," Reid said, "Do you know who your parents are?"

Stephen fixed a quizzical gaze on Reid. "Dominique is, of course," he said, smiling.

"Are there…are there any _other _kids here, like you?"

Stephen frowned. "A few," he said. "I don't _see _them much, though. I'm mostly focused on my education—we _all_ are—so I don't—"

"_Stephen!"_ Stephen started so badly that he almost fell over. "I've g-got to go," he stammered, as his name was called again, the voice calling for him sounding none too pleased. He turned and sprinted out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Reid sighed, sitting in silence and staring at the wall. "I hope five plus five is still ten," he muttered to himself as he waited for Stephen's return.

The boy reentered moments later. "You got it right," he said, a large grin on his face. "Here—question _three."_ He dropped the piece of paper in Reid's lap, then scurried out of the room, most likely to avoid being yelled at again. Reid opened the piece of paper hesitantly; he let out a moan of irritation when he saw what the paper read. There were only three words written.

_What is love?_

Stephen's words echoed forebodingly in his mind.

_People like you…they never last until the end._

Reid sighed, then prayed silently that his team would somehowfind him before he made it to the _end_. He looked despairingly at the dark walls around him; he had to have been missing for _weeks _by this point; if they hadn't found him by now, who knew if they ever would?

**Thanks for reading! Reviews would bring me great joy! :D**


	12. Chapter 12

**Thanks for reading, and **_**especially**_** thanks to anyone who reviewed! Sorry it took me a whole week to update—I decided to wait until July eleventh to post this chapter, for reasons that will probably become clear somewhere later in the chapter (and will probably cause you to think I'm a giant dork…but whatever.)**

Teddy was very tired, but reasonably cheerful. It had been a long week, of course; but the fact that he was aiding the BAU with one of their investigations was sure to look _great _on his resume.

He smiled to himself as he rearranged the post-its on his desk once again, so that they were in a nice looking stack that mimicked the colors of the rainbow.

"Hmph," he muttered. He enjoyed the post-it notes for several moments before making the decision to do the same with his sharpies. If _one _thing was color coordinated, after all, there was no reason that _everything_ elseshouldn't be.

Unfortunately, at that moment Agent Hotchner burst into the room, causing him to start so badly that he knocked half of the contents off of his desk and onto the floor.

"What the _hell!" _Teddy snapped, irritated; a moment later, however, he realized who he was talking to, and began to stutter an apology. "A-agent Agent Hotchner, I'm very s-sorry—you surprised me, is all—"

"No time," Agent Hotchner snapped, putting an abrupt end to the apology. "Get into the conference room. _Now."_

With one last, despairingly look at the mess of office supplies lying on the floor beside his desk, Teddy got to his feet and followed Agent Hotchner into the conference room.

"Jacob Gates," Agent Hotchner said sharply, once everyone had assembled, "There's been something bothering me about him; something _wrong;_ but I didn't understand it until now."

"Who?" Prentiss asked.

"The druggie that we interviewed," Morgan said. "_You _know; the guy who killed Sam," Morgan turned towards Agent Hotchner. "What do you mean, _wrong _about him?"

"Think about it," Agent Hotchner said hurriedly. "The way he talked, the way he looked, the way he acted, the things he _said_—it was too..._correct."_

Morgan frowned. "What? What do you mean, too _correct?"_

"He was too…" Agent Hotchner paused for a moment. "_Stereotypical. _Think about it; he acted _exactly_ how the average person would _expect_ a drug addict to act."

"So…you're suspicious because a drug addict acted like…a typical drug addict?" Prentiss raised her eyebrows.

"Well," Agent Hotchner said, "Everything about him was typical…except for _one _thing."

"He went to the police," Morgan said, suddenly.

"Exactly," Agent Hotchner said, "He had just _shot _a man—and if he _was _a drug addict, chances are he wouldn't have had the friendliest relationship with law enforcement agencies. There is _nothing _in that man's profile that would indicate him developing a sudden trust for the police, let _alone _the FBI."

"What are you saying then?" Prentiss asked.

"I asked Garcia to look into him," Agent Hotchner said, "And the charges she found were…well, _random._" He shook his head. "I mean, there are the possession charges; but here's a charge for sexual harassment; and another one for vandalism."

"Fake?" Prentiss asked, raising her eyebrows.

Agent Hotchner nodded. "Garcia was able to trace the file and find out his _real _identity," Agent Hotchner said. He turned on the monitor at the front of the room, and all of their heads turned to it.

"Marshal Chambers," Agent Hotchner said, "Who five years ago decided to change his name to _Francisco D'Anconia."_

"Oh!" Teddy exclaimed suddenly. All heads turned towards him, and he could feel his face turning read. "That's…that's one of the characters from _Atlas Shrugged,_" he muttered, by way of explanation.

"Exactly," Agent Hotchner said.

"So…what does that mean?" Rossi asked, from the corner of the room. "Is the unsub still alive? The body at the crime scene was a diversion?"

"Either that," Agent Hotchner said, "Or Jacob…Marshal…Francisco…" Agent Hotchner shook his head. "_Whatever _his name is; he was _hired _to kill Sam."

"Why would they _kill _their own man?" Prentiss asked.

"They were done with him," Agent Hotchner said, "They were ready to move onto the next stage of attack. They probably saw him as a liability; they wanted us to think that the unsub was dead, so that we would onto a different investigation. They'd be able to carry out any further plans without any attention from the police."

"But they _weren't _done with Reid," Morgan muttered, suddenly. "Sam wasn't _supposed_ to make it back to the room alive—they were planning to go and pick up Reid all along."

"That's why he went to the police," Morgan muttered, "He wanted us to think that we'd killed him…that the investigation was _over."_

"All we have to do now is find more about this…_Francisco _guy," Agent Hotchner said, "And hope he leads us to the root of this organization; and to Reid."

Reid watched as Stephen reentered the room, feeling his heart pounding anxiously in his chest. He relaxed slightly when the boy gave him a small smile.

"I got it right?" Reid asked, his spirits soaring.

Stephen nodded. His smile widened, then he gave Reid a note-card with a _four _on it.

"You've made it farther than any of the others," the boy said in wonder.

Reid grinned. It certainly helped to have an eidetic memory, and to be able to recite Ayn Rand's philosophical beliefs word-for-word. Reid extended his hand as far as it would go, accepting the fourth note-card.

"_If_ you pass the test," Stephen said suddenly, "And get to stay…well, I was wondering…will you be my _friend _afterwards?"

Reid stared at him, surprised for a moment. The boy turned red, and immediately began muttering, "You see, _I _don't really have any _friends _here; but I always _read _about people with friends, and I thought, since you'd be _new _here, you wouldn't have any friends _either, _and…"

"I'd love to be your friend, Stephen," Reid said, reassuring him while simultaneously avoiding the question. Stephen, however, did not seem to notice the evasion.

"Great," he said, smiling to himself. "I figure you must be pretty smart—seeing as you're doing so well on the test, and all—and Dominique's always telling me I'm not smart enough, so I was thinking—"

"_STEPHEN!"_

The boy started again, then gave Reid a sheepish grin. "Anyways," he said, "Good luck with the question. I _really_ hope you pass_._" He hurried out of the room, smiling to himself.

Reid sighed, silently hoping that some day he _and _Stephen would be able to make it out of this place; he wondered if his team was still working on the investigation, or if there even _was _still an investigation. He felt a twinge of anxiety as he thought of the map that Sam had shown him—how did he even know if the team was still _alive? _The group was _clearly_ more organized than anyone had suspected; as unlikely as it was that they would be able to gain access to the Quantico, he couldn't dispel the feeling Dominique was a _lot _smarter than any of them had guessed, and that his teammates were in almost as much danger as he was.

With a sigh, Reid opened the paper and read the question. He blinked when he saw it; read it again; and then felt a cold rush of anger pool in the bottom of his stomach.

_What is another name for hydromorphone hydrochloride?_

Reid gritted his teeth; then he sighed. The upside was that he felt more certain about this question than he had about any of the others; the downside was that Dominique obviously knew a lot more about his past than he had previously realized, and she was now flaunting this knowledge in an attempt to antagonize him.

He sighed, wrote the answer, then decided _not _to let it bother him; that was what they _wanted, _after all. He closed his eyes and yawned; although they _had_ provided him with sufficient amounts of food and water, and allowed him the occasional bathroom break now and again, he was becoming _incredibly _stiff from sitting and sleeping in the same chair for so long. His mind drifted to his team; would he ever see them again? Were they still looking for him? Were they even still _alive; _and if so, for how long?

_Don't be ridiculous, _Reid thought to himself. _Just because they've got a goddamn _map _of Quantico, doesn't mean they could ever get _in _there…_

But he couldn't stop the images from entering his mind; Morgan, lying on the floor, blood spilling from his head; Hotch, lying on the ground, his eyes wide and staring; JJ, with her neck twisted to the side; Quantico headquarters, engulfed in flames, with all of his teammates, coworkers, and friends, trapped and burning to death inside…

_God, I hope they figure it out soon, _Reid thought to himself. He spent hours in a panicked state of anxiety before he was finally able to drift off into a fitful and lonely sleep.

"Sir, I've got them!"

Teddy blinked and awoke with a start; only to see the blonde, colorful technical-analyst-lady rush into the conference room, holding a laptop above her head. He hadn't been aware of falling asleep; but he hadn't been getting a lot of rest in the past couple of days, and figured he must have dozed off.

"Got what, Garcia?" Agent Hotchner asked.

"Well, I was able to hack into Jacob-Marshal-Francisco's personal computer," she said, "I was able to access it remotely because he had it connected to—"

"Alright, Garcia, that's fine, what did you _find?"_ Agent Hotchner asked.

"It was connected into this database; it was password protected, but I was able to get around that and hacked into the system, which was connected to the—"

"Alright, Garcia, I don't care how you did it, what did you _find?" _Agent Hotchner demanded again.

Teddy thought that Agent Hotchner was being rather unappreciative, but the blonde, colorful analyst named Garcia didn't seem to care. "I hacked into the communication feed," she said, "And was able to gain access to their e-mails. Here, _look—" _She turned the computer around on the table, so it was facing the team. They keep talking about an event scheduled at the local 7-eleven."

Agent Hotchner blinked. "An _event _being an _attack, _of course…" he frowned. "But why the hell would they attack a 7-eleven?"

"Well, it's obviously code for something," Prentiss said, "Some _other _location? That could be a code-name for Quantico? I don't see what that has to do with a 7-eleven, but…" Prentiss trailed off as Morgan started shaking his head.

"They would have no need to communicate the location," he said, "They're already circulating a map—that would be redundant."

"Maybe it's implying a different, smaller attack?" JJ suggested. "Maybe they haven't been able to get into Quantico, so they're planning on an easier target."

"No," Agent Hotchner said suddenly. They all turned to look at him.

"What do you mean, _no?_" Morgan asked.

"It's not a _location _at all," Agent Hotchner murmured. "It's a date."

There was a moment of silence.

"7-11," Morgan said slowly. "July eleventh." He looked around the table once, then fixed his eyes on his boss. "Hotch…that's _today."_

"_Today?"_ JJ squeaked, her voice jumping several octaves.

"That's impossible, Aaron," Rossi said, "How could they attack today? There hasn't been any suspicious activity; everyone we let in here gets a background check_._"

"Jacob Gates," Teddy said suddenly. Once again, he turned red as all eyes landed on him; but he continued talking. "Or…or Francisco, or Marshal, or whatever his name is. He was…he was here for _hours _being interviewed…" He trailed off quietly as this unpleasant (rather obvious) realization sunk in.

Agent Hotchner's head snapped towards his team. "We brought him upstairs," he said, "So that we could interview him…that's the _real _reason he went to the police," he muttered. "It wasn't to derail the investigation…it was to get access to Quantico. How the _hell _could we have missed that?"

"Did he _leave _the interview room at any time?" Morgan asked Agent Hotchner, a note of genuine panic in his voice.

"I took him to get a drink of water," Rossi said grimly.

"I took him on a bathroom break," Prentiss said.

"I…I led him around the office," JJ said quietly, her voice small and terrified. "We walked around the bullpen a couple times. I just thought he seemed…so _panicked, _and I wanted to calm him down…" they watched as her face grew pale. "Oh, god, Hotch…I left him alone when Rossi said they had found Sam's body..."

There was a spilt-second of silence as they all evaluated the gravity of the situation.

Agent Hotchner got to his feet. "We need to evacuate this building, _now," _Agent Hotchner snapped.

"There are hundreds of workers here, Hotch," Morgan said, "How can we evacuate without causing panic? It's already well into the afternoon—"

"And they probably have someone monitoring the building," Rossi said, "If they _see _that we're evacuating, and they _have _managed to plant explosives, it might cause them to set them off prematurely."

"We'll alert security, _they'll_ deal with evacuation." Agent Hotchner snapped.

Teddy could feel his hands shaking as panic clenched tightly at his stomach. "Shouldn't we…shouldn't we get _out _of here?" he whispered, horrified.

Agent Hotchner turned to him. "You're welcome to leave, kid," he said; his face was fierce, although not altogether unkind. "All of you are. But I'm going to stay here and evacuate with the rest of the staff. If they see all of us leaving…" he trailed. "It wouldn't be fair if _I _had an advantage over the rest of those in the building.

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Teddy watched the rest of the BAU nod their assent. Teddy glanced towards the door—they folded his hands to stop their shaking and stared at Agent Hotchner, waiting for further instruction and trying to hide the rising panic that was building deep within his chest.

Agent Hotchner snapped into action.

"Garcia—can you get a location of the headquarters from what you already have?"

"I _think _so," Garcia said, her voice sounding panicked, "But it'll take _time, _Hotch, and I need my equipment—"

"Get in there _now _and start working," Agent Hotchner snapped, "Prentiss—go tell security _now." _Prentiss got to her feet and sprinted down the hall. "We need to find out where these people are and shut it off before it can happen," he snapped. "But first, we have to find Reid." He gritted his teeth. "This is their endgame. If they realize their plan has been compromised _before _we can get him out of there, they _will _kill him. No matter their previous plans for him, he'll become an _enormous_ liability."

"So we need to find a location, infiltrate the headquarters, arrest the organizers, evacuate Quantico, and find and deactivate the bombs…all before an undetermined time today when this building will, supposedly, blow up?" The team stared at Agent Hotchner hopelessly as they listened to Morgan's words.

Agent Hotchner's knuckles were white as he clutched the back of the chair. "We _have _to," he muttered, "Or a lot of innocent people are going to die—and Reid will be one of them."

**Reviews will bring me great motivation and fulfillment; I am (as mentioned in earlier author's notes) **_**still **_**an insufferable narcissist, so I would very much love to hear your thoughts on the chapter. Thanks for reading!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Sorry it's taken me so long to update! I was without internet for a week. I know this chapter is short, but there will be more to come very soon. Thanks for reading! **

"Hotch," Morgan said, his voice hollow, "We _can't."_

Hotch stared ahead grimly, facing the building; he glanced at the crowd of military officers standing several feet behind him. "If we destroy the database—"

"Reid's in there."

Hotch shook his head, as if to shake off an irritating fly; then he continued as if he hadn't heard Morgan speak. "If we destroy the database before they have a chance to attack, we'll save Quantico and everyone in it."

"We could get more information," Morgan said. "Plan an evacuation. We could—"

"We don't have time, Morgan," Hotch said grimly. "We can't send a swat in. The moment they realize we're onto them, they'll detonate the bomb. We have to destroy it all. Make them unable to attack."

"What if the bomb still goes off?" Rossi asked, standing several feet behind them. "What if—"

"It's a possibility," Hotch said. "But the best chance we have is to destroy the headquarters, then plan an evacuation. Otherwise, they'll detonate the bomb during the evacuation. It's our best shot." He turned to face his two coworkers.

Morgan stared at him for another moment. "Reid's in there," he repeated stonily.

Hotch stared back without flinching. "Chances are," he said, "Reid's going to die either way. I don't want the deaths of hundreds of Bureau employees on my conscience as well."

In a violent motion, Morgan turned and lashed out at table containing the water cooler, knocking the cooler as well as a hundred paper cups onto the ground. He turned and stalked away.

The general approached Hotch, eyeing Morgan warily. "My men want to blow it up," he muttered. "We're running out of time. What's your call?"

Hotch turned towards the building again. He nodded once. "I agree," he said. "Destroy it."

Reid watched in slight amusement as Stephen practically bounced into the room. "You got it _right," _he said gleefully, clearly having a hard time containing his excitement. "Only one more. Then we get to be friends, right?"

"Stephen," Reid said, "The questions are different for each contestant. Aren't they?"

Stephen shrugged. "I'm not allowed to read the questions," he said. He thrust the fifth piece of paper in Reid's face. _"Please _get it right," he said.

"What do you think I've been trying to do, Stephen?" Reid asked, grinning slightly. Stephen grinned back.

"Well, just keep it up, I guess," he said, smiling. He turned and started walking towards the door; however, before he made it, the door swung open and Dominique entered the room.

"I wasn't talking to him, I swear!" Stephen gasped, staring up at her with wide eyes. Dominique ignored him and stormed over towards Reid.

"What did you do?" she snapped, causing him to lean backwards in his chair.

"What?' he asked. "What do you mean?"

"Our account has been hacked," she snapped. "Our location could be compromised.

Reid's mind instantly flashed to Garcia. "I've been _here _the whole time," he said coldly, "I'm handcuffed to a chair. What could _I_ have possibly done?"

"You tricked Sam into making that video," she snapped. "Francisco said that they must have been able to decipher some sort of code from it. Some sort of code that _you _left—while you were _pretending _to be one of us."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Reid said, maintaining the same neutral tone. Stephen just stood frozen in place, glancing back and forth from Reid to Dominique with a frightened expression on his face.

"Don't you?" she said coolly. "Well, maybe this will help you remember." She took a gun out of her back pocket and pointed it at Reid's forehead. Stephen let out a cry of protest.

"Nope," Reid said. "That's not helping very much. If you're looking to jog my memory, I would suggest RTM therapy, or perhaps developing some sort of pneumonic. Then again, I have an eidetic memory; so chances are, if I'm _not _remembering something it's because it never happened in the first place."

"Do you think you're _funny?"_ Dominique demanded shrilly.

"No," Reid said. "But I _am _getting tired of these games. If you're going to kill me, then kill me. And have fun explaining it to Stephen afterwards."

Dominique glanced at her supposed son, then back at Reid. "You think I won't kill you because there's a child in the room?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

"No," Reid said coolly, "I think you're a sociopath, which means that you don't really care whether or not there's a child in the room. But I'm finished playing your game if you're just going to kill me regardless of whether I win or lose. I haven't compromised the investigation. However, it's obvious that _somebody _has; which means you need to change your game plan; which means that I've become a liability. Which means that you _know _I haven't had anything to do with whoever has hacked into your system, but that you came in here with the intention of killing me regardless of what I say or do."

Dominique opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again.

"I guess I can't convince you otherwise; but if you've got a reason for killing me, you should at least be straight about it. I wouldn't want you to bullshit Stephen into thinking this whole thing is about right and wrong; he's got to learn at some point what you really are."

"One more word, Dr. Reid," Dominique said. " One more word, and—"

"Do you know what she really is, Stephen?" Reid asked, knowing that he had so far suspended his death by about a minute. "_Evil."_

Stephen blinked up at Dominique. "Please don't kill him," he begged her. "_Please. _He was going to be my _friend."_

Dominique stared at Stephen for a fraction of a second. Then she turned back to Reid and raised her gun to his head. "Nice try, Dr. Reid," she said. "But the game is over."

Stephen let out a wail of sorrow, turning his face to the wall. Reid stared straight at Dominique, willing himself not to look away.

Then, without warning, the ground moved strangely; as if there were an earthquake.

Dominique froze, then turned the stare at the ground. Stephen stared at the ceiling with confused eyes.

Then, suddenly, there was a loud noise; Stephen screamed, clasping his hands over his ears; the ground shook, causing Reid's chair to fall over sideways. As his head collided with the ground, he was vaguely aware of the sounds of rubble falling all around him before everything went dark.

**Thanks for reading! Reviewers bring me great joy and happiness! **


	14. Chapter 14

**Thanks for reading! I'd just like to let you know that there are probably two or three more chapters left of this story, and also that I'd like to add a warning for character death. Just in case I feel like killing someone. You know.**

Everything sounded like nothing and smelled like asphalt.

Reid became vaguely aware of his arm moving back and forth—who was doing that? Was he having a seizure?

Reid moved his head slightly—no, not a seizure. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the dimness of the room, a young boy's face came into view—a face covered in ashes and blood and tears—mouthing the same words over and over, although Reid was incapable of understanding them.

_Stephen._

Reid tried to sit up—but he realized that he was still attached to the chair.

"_Stephen," _he gasped, his voice barely coming out, "The _key…"_ He could only just make out the faintest hints of his own whisperings as his hearing gradually returned to him.

The boy just stared at him, with wide eyes. "Dominique," he whispered softly.

Reid's eyes made their way over to the limp form of his previous tormentor—her gun lay several feet away from her, discarded. Reid wondered for several seconds whether she might be unconscious; before he saw the slab of granite that had landed on her chest and the large pool of blood that had soaked through her blouse.

Gritting his teeth, Reid reached for the body—he caught hold of Dominique's arm and pulled her towards him, letting out a loud grunt of effort. Stephen just watched him in stunned silence.

Reid pulled the body further towards him, then desperately reached for the pocket of the now blood-stained pants; he rummaged around blindly for several moments before his hands touched something hard and metallic.

_Yes._

Hands trembling with excitement, he crammed the key into the keyhole of his handcuffs, twisting it around for several moments before he finally heard the _click. _

Stephen watched him silently as he wriggled his way free; he got to his feet, then checked himself over. He didn't appear to have been injured badly at all—the thing that had caused him to pass out was his head hitting the floor when the chair fell over.

After he had finished checking himself, he glanced over at Stephen—he, too, seemed to be relatively unharmed, although extremely terrified.

"Are you alright?" Reid asked him seriously.

He just stared at Reid with wide eyes. "Fire," he whispered eventually.

Reid's head flashed towards the doorway; he could see the smoldering remains of cement blocks lying in piles; there was a giant, gaping hole where the door should have been. Reid glanced up—he could barely see the specks of light shining down from the ceiling, and figured that they must be very deep down in the basement—whatever impact the building had suffered, it must have hit the gas tank, and now the basement was the only place left that hadn't been burnt to smithereens; however, it wouldn't remain safe for very long.

"We have to get out of here," Reid said to Stephen.

The boy pointed a trembling hand at the limp form of Dominique.

"She's dead," Reid snapped. "I'm sorry. We can't help her anymore. If we stay here, we'll be dead, too. Got it?"

Stephen nodded slowly; but his eyes were still wide, as if he were in a trance.

"Come on," Reid said; he grabbed Stephen's hand and pulled him through the doorway, looking for anything that might have once been a staircase. He pulled the boy through the smoldering piles of rubble; Stephen was perfectly silent, following attentively and perfunctorily, until another cascade of rocks fell down and missed the boy by inches.

"_Help me!" _the boy froze in place, his eyes wide, flickering from side to side as if he were a rabbit trapped in a cage.

"It's alright," Reid said urgently, "We're going to be fine. We have to keep moving."

Stephen shook his head back and forth rapidly, ripping his hand away from Reid's and clasping his hands over his ears. "We're going to die," he whimpered, "We're going to _die, _Dr. Reid…"

"No, we aren't, its _fine, _as long as we keep _moving," _Reid insisted. But Stephen didn't move. He remained very still, clasping his ears, his eyes staring at the ground.

"We can't give it to them," he whispered softly, as if reciting something from memory. "They want something from us…some kind of sanction…but if we value our lives, we must not give it to them…" He covered his face in his hands. "Project X is all that awaits us," he muttered. "Project X is all that awaits us. Project…Project X…"

Reid grabbed the boy's chin and forced him to look at him. "This doesn't have to be like the book, Stephen," he said. "You and I are friends now. You just need to trust me, and we'll be fine. I _promise. _Alright?"

Stephen stared at his face with wide eyes, unspeaking. "You promise we'll be alright?" he whispered.

"I _promise."_ Stephen stared at him for another agonizing moment; however, after what appeared to be some careful deliberation, he got to his feet and put his hand in Reid's once again.

Reid was just about to give the boy a reassuring smile when he was aware of another rumbling, similar to the first one; he stared up at the rocks piled high above him with wide eyes, then turned to face the child in front of him.

"Stephen," he whispered, his mouth going dry. "_Run."_

Hotch stared at the building in front of him as it gave a final lurch, the cinderblocks giving way and falling into the ground. He sighed, then turned towards the army general.

"Is Quantico secure?" he asked.

The general nodded gravely.

"Any survivors from the building so far?" Hotch asked.

The general shook his head. "The top levels were incinerated immediately," he said. "I'm not going to send my men in to try and rescue survivors, if there even are any. It's a suicide mission."

Hotch nodded slowly. He and then general approached the building, which had ceased to show any signs of explosion for several minutes. "All's quiet here," the general murmured, raising his eyebrows. He turned to go back towards his men.

It was at that moment that something caught Hotch's eye.

"Wait," he muttered slowly. The general turned around.

"You see something?" he asked.

Hotch shook his head, thinking that his mind was playing tricks on him. "No," he muttered. "Never—_wait."_ He was certain of it this time; he had seen one of the rocks move, ever so slightly. "That boulder—it's moving—"

"Of course it's moving," the general said, "The building's falling in."

"No, it's moving…_up."_ He blinked. "Like someone's pushing it."

The general frowned, squinting at the building. _"Which _boulder did you say…?" But Hotch had already started walking. When he saw the boulder move again, he broke into a sprint. "Someone's trying to get out!" he shouted to the general, who was gawking at him with an open mouth.

Hotch knelt down next to the rock; he knew that there was no _reason _to believe what he was thinking—he didn't want to think the name, lest he let himself hope—but there was _some _human being trapped down there, and he was going to try and help them get out.

Hotch grabbed the boulder and pulled at it with all of his might. "Help!" he shouted at his colleague; the confused general came ambling over, then knelt beside the rock.

"We'll move it on three," Hotch said, projecting his voice as loud as possible; so that not only the general could hear him, but the person below, as well.

"One," Hotch gasped, tightening his hold on the rock, "Two," he braced his feet against the ground, _"Three!" _After a moment of pulling with all of his might, Hotch felt the boulder give way; the momentum of the pull caused him to fall backwards, lying on the ground with an undignified _"huh!"_

As he lay on the ground, slightly stunned, he saw the general reaching his hand into the hole; a blackened, ash-stained hand rose up to meet it, and seconds later a figure emerged from the hole.

For a split second, Hotch felt a shudder of disappointment—the figure was so covered in soot that he was practically unrecognizable. But the disappointment only lasted for a moment, before he felt a swell of disbelief and elation and happiness and wonder as he beheld the familiar figure in front of him. "Reid," he whispered, the word sounding strange on his tongue; the young man he'd more or less condemned to death an hour earlier was now standing in front of him.

Even more striking was the fact that Reid appeared to be carrying the limp form of a small boy.

"Get the paramedics down here, now!" the general shouted at the hill. He turned to Reid. "Are you alright?" he asked. "You'd better sit down."

Reid didn't move. He was staring at the child in his arms; the young man was very still, yet his eyes gave away a rather fevered, panicked intensity as he looked at the boy's face.

"Reid," Hotch said, taking a step forward—but Reid didn't move. Slowly, as if in a daze, he lowered the boy to the ground. Hotch noticed with a jolt that the child's eyes were wide open, staring at nothing.

"Jesus Christ," the general muttered.

Hotch stepped forward and took hold of Reid's arm, firmly. "Reid," he said. "You need to see the paramedics now."

Reid made no indication that he had heard him, until Hotch tightened his grip and tried to pull him away from the child's body. He resisted with a strength that Hotch had not originally believed him capable of in any circumstances, let alone in the condition he was in. It was as if Hotch wasn't even there.

"Stephen," Reid whispered, staring at the open eyes of the child. "We didn't give it to them."

"Reid," Hotch said, "We're going now." With the help of the general, he lifted Reid and managed to pull him away from the boy—Reid seemed to give in suddenly, as if he were too dazed to fight back. He turned his face towards Hotch.

"I broke my promise," he said, his voice sounding flat and hollow.

Hotch shook his head wordlessly—he tried to hold the young agent's gaze, tried to offer some sort of comfort or reassurance; but something in Reid's eyes frightened him. There was something dark; something poisonous; something that spoke of the depths of manic nihilism, of nonsensical and chaotic tragedy, of a damage that could not be reversed. Hotch had seen variations of it in men before; but this time, the look was coupled with his own feelings of guilt and loss. Hotch felt a quiet horror settle deep inside of him, and he couldn't help but look away.

"Come on, Reid," he muttered, his eyes on the ground. "Let's get you to a hospital."

**Thanks for reading! I hope I didn't depress anyone too terribly. Please, **_**please**_** review and tell me what you think!**


	15. Chapter 15

**This is the second to last chapter. Thanks for any reviews from earlier!**

"You feeling alright, kid?"

"Sure." Reid was sitting in a chair at the edge of his room, staring out the window. He had broken two fingers on his right hand, but had otherwise managed to escape the experience unscathed.

"The doctor said we could leave as soon as he signs your chart," Morgan said. He had left the BAU early so that he could drive Reid home.

"Awesome." Reid didn't look away from the window.

Morgan sighed, then took a step closer to where he was sitting. "You know," he said, "There was nothing you could have done to save that kid. You did everything you could."

"Sure, I know that," Reid said. He didn't move.

"Reid," Morgan snapped, "You've barely spoken since you got here. Hey—_look _at me."

Reid sighed, then turned and fixed Morgan with an expression that was both apathetic and slightly annoyed.

"I know you feel guilty that you couldn't save the kid," Morgan said, "But—"

"I don't feel guilty," Reid said.

Morgan raised his eyebrows. He was about to respond before the doctor walked in. Reid stood up and accepted the chart, giving the doctor a polite smile. "Thanks."

The walk to the car was quiet, and they rode in silence for several minutes. "Thanks for giving me a ride home," Reid said eventually.

"Yeah," Morgan said uneasily. "Listen, I was wondering if you wanted to stay the night at my place. You've been through a lot of…_stuff, _and—"

"No thanks," Reid said calmly. "I really just want to go home."

"Well, I could stay at _your _apartment," Morgan said. "Garcia said that she brought over some groceries—"

"Nice of her," Reid commented, "But I'd like to be alone, if you don't mind."

Morgan spent the rest of the car ride trying to convince Reid to change his mind—but his attempts at persuasion had no effect. Once they arrived at the apartment building, Reid opened the door and started to hop out; but Morgan grabbed his arm, stopping him.

Reid flinched slightly. "What?" he snapped, looking truly irritated for the first time that day. "I'm fine, Morgan. Really."

"Reid, you've been held hostage for three weeks," Morgan said, "We find the guy that kidnapped you bleeding to death on the floor. You walk out of a burning building with a dead kid in your arms and you haven't said anything to _anyone _about what happened in there—"

"The case is over," Reid said. "There's nothing left to talk about." He pulled his arm free of Morgan's grasp, then exited the car and slammed the door behind him.

Morgan sighed. He dialed Hotch's number.

"Did you pick up Reid?" Hotch asked, once he had answered.

"Yeah," Morgan said. "He just wanted to go home, though."

"Does he seem upset?"

Morgan frowned. "No. He seems…fine, actually."

"He wasn't fine earlier." Hotch sounded worried.

"I think we should leave him alone, Hotch. The kid likes his privacy." Morgan watched Reid's figure walk through the doors to the apartment complex and disappear from sight.

There was a serious, contemplative silence from Hotch. "Alright," he said eventually. "You told him that he had a month of paid leave, right?"

"Yeah, I told him."

"What'd he say?"

"He said he wanted to come back to work tomorrow," said Morgan, who had spoken to Reid about this earlier.

"Oh," Hotch said. "Well, that's a good sign."

"Is he cleared for duty? He'll need a psych eval."

Hotch sighed. "Well, he can come in," he said. "Maybe we can do the psych eval tomorrow. If he wants to come into work, I'm not going to force him to sit at home and do nothing."

"Alright," Morgan said. "I think he'll be okay. Right, Hotch?"

"Sure," Hotch said. "He'll be okay."

Reid was looking in the mirror.

His face looked strange to him. His hair had gotten long again—his cheekbones were deeply accentuated, his skin stretched tight over the bones. Slowly, as if in a daze, he went into the kitchen and began putting the groceries that Garcia had bought for him into the fridge, one by one, throwing away the ones that had expired. Once he had finished, he sat on the couch.

"Huh," he muttered to himself. He wanted to do something alleviate his boredom; yet he was also simultaneously seized by a vitriolic hatred of anything that he had previously enjoyed doing. He continued sitting on the couch, staring at the wall.

_What is the meaning of life, Dr. Reid?_

Reid blinked, and a small smile came to him as he recalled the absurdity of the question, only to slide off his face as he thought of Stephen's cheerful jubilation when he had answered the question correctly.

The correct answer to the question had been, of course, _to live, _which had been a blatantly obvious answer that was intended to humiliate the contestant.

Reid could still hear Stephen's voice.

_You won the game, Dr. Reid._

I know I did.

_You're alive, Dr. Reid._

So what?

Reid blinked, then sighed. He got to his feet, then went over to the bookcase at the corner of his apartment; it took him about ten minutes to find what he was looking for, since he had hundreds of books in his apartment, but he eventually found the novel that he had read nearly ten years ago, sitting innocently underneath a large pile of books on philosophy.

He bent down and picked it up. He stared at it as it sat in his hands; he was suddenly overcome with a feeling of incredible significance, which already seemed to have become incredibly insignificant.

"Makes no sense," he muttered. He dropped the book back into the pile. Without warning, a flood of memories came rushing back to him in that instant, penetrating the numbness.

_I don't always know if you'll be what you are. That's why I don't get on well with humans—they're so changeable._

He turned and faced the wall. "The book isn't the problem," he said. _"People _are the problem. They fuck everything up." Then he realized that he was talking to a wall again. He shook his head, then slowly walked back towards the couch and sat down. He was instantly seized by a sudden, insurmountable hatred—he got to his feet again and began pacing back and forth. He wasn't thinking of Stephen, or Sam, or even Dominique—he was thinking about Morgan and Hotch and Garcia and JJ, and he couldn't dispel the bile of hatred that rose in his throat at the very thought of them.

_What is love, Dr. Reid?_

"Shut up," he snapped at his brain.

_You would not _believe_ the time I've spent wallowing in nihilistic depression._

Reid blinked, then shook his head again.

_They knew that you were in there. They destroyed the building anyways. You _shouldn't _be alive. They didn't try to save you. They had already given up._

"Shut _up!" _Reid shouted, in a voice that sounded strange and alien even to him; the nagging thought that he had been avoiding since he had woken up that morning had finally risen to the surface. "They had no choice," he muttered to himself, as if speaking it aloud would make it true. "They couldn't save me."

_We can't be saved._

With a growing sense of fury, Reid turned and stormed into his bedroom. He noticed that Garcia had left a vase of flowers on the bedside table; and before he could stop himself, he snatched the vase off the table and threw it against the wall. Shards of glass littered the carpet; drops of water crept lethargically down the wall.

_They have no concern for the pain of the innocent._

He sat down on the bed and put his face in his hands, barely able to control the panicked, gasping breaths that overtook him at that moment, unable to decide if they were the result sorrow or anger.

_Stephen,_ he thought to himself, although he knew that no one could hear him,_ it should have been me. It doesn't make any sense. People fuck everything up. It's not one side that's fucked up. It's both of them. Both sides are fucked up, and they have no concern for the pain of the innocent._

"_I HATE IT!" _he exploded suddenly, shouting at the broken flower vase. _"I HATE ALL OF IT! EVERYTHING!"_ He grabbed his bedside lamp and threw it at the same wall. He stood staring at it for several moments afterwards, panting furiously and immensely confused by his own actions.

It was at this point that he heard a knock at the door. Reid felt the most curious sensation of being snatched back to reality—he approached the door, and opened it to find Hotch standing before him.

"What are you doing here?" Reid asked furiously, certain that Hotch had heard his most recent outburst.

Hotch eyed him for several moments. "Your badge," he said, holding it out to Reid. "You dropped it on the night you…disappeared. You'll need it back, if you want to come to work tomorrow."

Reid stared at the badge numbly.

"Are you alright?" Hotch asked.

Reid fixed his boss with a blank stare. He couldn't bring himself to answer.

"Reid?" Hotch prompted. "Are you _alright?"_

"Hotch…" Reid trailed off, before he started speaking again. "Hotch, I think I have to quit."

Hotch blinked. "What? You want to quit?"

"No," Reid muttered. "I think…I think I _have _to."

Hotch stared at him. "We can talk about this," he said, "You have a month of paid vaca—" but before Hotch could finish his sentence, Reid had slammed the door in his face.

He stood there for a moment, struck by the gravity of what he had just done. He considered opening the door to apologize; but he couldn't bring himself to do it, because he felt the most compelling desire to never, never speak to Hotch; or anyone on his team; ever again. Finally, slowly, he turned around and walked into his bedroom to clean up the broken pieces of glass off the floor.

**The next chapter will be the last one. Reviews will bring a smile to my face, because I love to hear your opinions (even if it's just to yell at me for writing a really depressing chapter.) Thanks for reading!**


	16. Chapter 16

**Alright, this is the last chapter! Thank you so much to everybody who has been reading this story until the end, despite it's depressing nature, and extra special thanks to anyone who left reviews. This ends very ambiguously—I know I said that for my last story, as well, but this ends **_**really **_**ambiguously. Some people will probably find this annoying…but oh well. I kind of wanted to leave it up to interpretation. So, whether you like it or hate it, please leave a review and tell me why! Or tell me any thoughts you have, in general, because I'd love to hear them. **

Morgan couldn't sleep.

He sighed, rolled over onto his back, and looked at the clock. It was only nine, but he hadn't properly slept since Reid had disappeared; and now that he _could _sleep, he couldn't.

He folded his arms on his chest, then closed his eyes. He couldn't get Reid's blank expression out of his head; he couldn't stop seeing his ashen covered figure, lowering the child's body onto the ground; the expression of polite apathy in the hospital, and the strange look of hatred he had given Morgan as he'd tried to stop him from leaving the car.

_I don't feel guilty._

The strange thing was, the words had sounded sincere; but something was wrong. Something much worse than guilt. Something that had _changed._

He sighed, rolled his eyes, then turned over onto his stomach. _You're being melodramatic,_ he told himself. He let out a sigh, then slowly began to drift off to sleep.

His phone rang.

Letting out a moan of irritation, he reached out for the phone, groping blindly in the darkness. "Hello?" he answered groggily, once he had finally managed to locate it.

"Reid just quit."

Morgan blinked slowly; the information took several moments to sink in. "Huh? Just now?"

"Well, earlier today. I tried to call him a couple times—I kept knocking on his door—but he kept ignoring me. I went home and decided to call you." Instead of sounding confused or frustrated, Hotch's voice sounded slightly frightened; in the oddest way, it reminded Morgan of a child who had seen a glimpse of something he'd rather like to forget about.

"Oh," Morgan muttered. "Well, so he quit. Maybe he'll change his mind. It's alright, Hotch. He just needs time to think. That's all."

"I don't know, Morgan," Hotch said. "It was just…it was the way he _looked _at me."

Morgan frowned. "What do you mean?"

"He looked at me like…like he _hated _me."

"Well…" Morgan trailed off, wondering why Hotch was suddenly so concerned with whether or not people liked him. "He's a bit upset. That's understandable. I'm sure he'll be _fine, _Hotch."

There was a small silence on the other end of the phone. Finally, Hotch spoke. "I'm a profiler, Morgan," he said softly, "And I don't think he will be."

Reid had decided that he hated all of his books.

He wasn't sure exactly how it had happened. He had been standing in his apartment; after Hotch had finally left and he had cleaned up the broken glass. He hadn't been sure what to do; so he had opened a book and started reading. But something about the text had irritated him; there was something _fake _about it; something superficial that he couldn't quite place. He had opened another book, but gotten the same feeling; he had tried for four more, but eventually gave up; he could hear the words of the books already whizzing around in his head, and he was powerless to stop them. He couldn't pinpoint exactly why, but it almost seemed as if the books were serving as imposters for the authors who had written them. Frustrated by the irrationally of this statement, yet unable to dispel it, Reid put on his coat and decided to take a walk.

It was dark out by this point. He passed several coffee shops, but didn't go in; the atmosphere was bright and cheery, with dozens of happy people with their faces lighted up and their mouths opening and closing with words that were meaningless for Reid; and were probably meaningless for them, as well. Without being completely aware of where he was going, he turned down a deserted alleyway and started walking.

He was overwhelmed with a feeling of a desolate, numb, peacefulness. The dark road felt safe; it felt as if he could empty his head, for once, and enjoy the presence of nothingness. He didn't want to think. He felt as if he were standing at the very edge of a precipice, and that thinking might be the one thing that would push him over the edge.

Eventually, however, became aware of a small, bright light; as if one from a fire; and heard two voices speaking to each other softly. He approached the light as in the trance; and came face to face with two men; fifty or so years old, with dirty clothes and long beards. They were obviously homeless; and as Reid stared at them, they stared back with the same level of concentrated silence.

Eventually, one of them spoke. "Can we help you?" the one on the left asked.

Reid blinked. "What is the meaning of life?" he asked.

They stared at him.

"Forty-two," the one on the right said.

"Don't be an idiot," the one on the left said. "That's a goddamn _number._" He turned to Reid and rolled his eyes. "He's a bit affected."

"I'm sorry," Reid said.

"What for?" the one on the left asked.

"For asking," Reid said. "It's one of the stupidest questions invented. I guess it deserves a stupid answer."

"Damn straight it does," the one on the left said. "Well, did you want anything _else?"_

Reid shrugged. "I quit my job today," he said.

"Well, that sounds mighty pretentious of you, doesn't it?" the one on the left asked. "Sharing your employment troubles with a couple of bums."

Reid blinked, then reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. "Do you want some money?" he asked, in a strange and desperate kind of voice. Before either man could answer, he started taking money out of his wallet and tossing it in their general directions.

"Jesus Christ!" the one on the left said, scrambling for the bills falling onto the ground. "How much have you _got _in there?"

"I don't know," Reid said, "Why don't you take it? Take all of it." He threw his wallet at the homeless man on the left, who caught it with wide eyes and trembling hands.

Suddenly, a high-pitched, eerie laugh started coming from the one on the right. Reid eyed him warily; the one on the left seemed too busy counting the money to notice.

"Do you think that will make you feel better?" the one on the right asked, after he had finished laughing. "Do you think giving away all your money will make you into a better person?" he grinned toothily; Reid felt a strange chill deep in his chest as he looked into the man's eyes. "Do you think that will fix it?" The grin disappeared, and he looked at him solemnly; almost tragically. "It won't."

Reid stared at him. "What will?" he asked, softly.

He looked up at Reid; and for some reason that Reid could not place, he looked strangely familiar; not as if Reid had met him before, but as if they had some kind understanding that linked them together.

"Don't give them your sanction."

Reid froze, fixing the man with a horrified stare.

"The only difference," the man said, "Between the good and the evil, is that the good will ask for your sanction. But once you give it to them, they are just as dangerous as the evil; perhaps even more so; because there is nothing left to stop them."

"Don't listen to him, sir," said the one on the left, who was still counting the money. "Don't let him upset you. I _told _you he was affected." But his voice sounded strange and far-away; Reid was only looking at the one on the right.

"Evil requires the sanction of the victim," Reid whispered softly.

"If you don't want to be a victim," the man said, "You can't give them that sanction."

"If we value our lives…" Reid muttered. He shook his head slowly. "I have to get out of here," he said suddenly, his chest filling instantly with the overwhelming feeling of dread and panic. He turned and walked down the alleyway, away from the men and into the night.

**One Week Later**

"I'm telling you, Hotch. He just needs more time. This is a mistake. We shouldn't be going to see him until _after _his month of paid vacation time is over." Hotch and Morgan were standing outside of Reid's apartment complex, arguing heatedly.

Hotch shook his head. "He hasn't answered his phone in a week," he said. "He hasn't bought anything with his credit card since then. Something's wrong. We have to check on him."

Morgan sighed. "Lead the way," he muttered, "But you _know _he won't answer his door."

Morgan was right; Reid didn't answer the door. After several minutes of futile knocking, Morgan and Hotch returned to the lobby. Hotch approached the receptionist's desk.

"Have you seen Spencer Reid at all this past week?" he asked.

The receptionist glanced up. "No," he said. "He left."

Hotch blinked. "What?"

The receptionist sighed in irritation, then looked up once more from his computer. "His landlord was telling me. He showed up a week ago with the money to pay the rest of his lease. He said he was leaving the city. Haven't seen him since."

"Is there…is there someone else in his apartment, now?" Hotch asked, a tone of disbelief in his voice.

"No, the lease has still got about four months on it. But he hasn't come back."

"Could you let us into the apartment?" Hotch asked. The receptionist stared at him suspiciously.

"Sir, I can't just _let _you into someone else's—"

"FBI," Hotch said solemnly, holding out his badge. "It's for an investigation."

"Oh," the receptionist's eyes widened, as Morgan shot Hotch and irritated look. "Alright, then."

Once they had gotten into the apartment, the receptionist muttered something about needing to get back to his desk, then turned and walked away rather hurriedly. Hotch stepped through the door, looking around.

The apartment looked unchanged; all of the books had been left behind, in a pile on the floor. A mug of coffee had been left on the counter; inside his bedroom, clothes had been haphazardly pulled from the drawers, most of which were still open.

"Somebody left in a hurry," Morgan said wonderingly. "Where did he _go?"_

"No idea," Hotch muttered darkly. It was at that moment that something caught his eye; it was a piece of paper, lying on the counter, held down by an empty glass; a message had been scrawled there, in Reid's strange and loopy handwriting.

_Hotch,_

_Man is the only living species that has the power to act as his own destroyer—and that is the way he has acted throughout most of history. We can evade reality, but we cannot evade the consequences of escaping reality._

_There is nothing to take a man's freedom, save other men. To be free, a man must be free of his brothers._

_Evil requires the sanction of the victim. I need no warrant on my being, and no word of sanction upon my being. I am the warrant and the sanction._

**THE END.**


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